Flu
by Raven Ehtar
Summary: Tony gets sick, his family takes care of him. Avengers / Norse mythology fusion. One-shot. Frostiron. Part XI of "Loki's Brood" series.


_**A/N:**__ Well, here we are. It's been a long time. Lots of life changes have happened and continue to happen, for myself and for our lovelies in the story. Oddly enough, this one provided a good backdrop to see some of those changes – and some character relationships. Honestly that was a surprise. The original outline was the synopsis, word for word: 'Tony gets sick, his family takes care of him.' Special thanks go out to those who suggested an installment where Tony is either sick or incapacitated, the idea latched on!_

_This marks more or less the center of the series. Sorry for the long wait, guys, hopefully the length makes up for that a bit. _

_Also, __we are not taking __Thor 2__ or __Captain America: Winter Soldier__ into account._

_Enjoy!_

_**Series: **__Loki's Brood__, Part XI_

_**Betas:**__ SkyTurtle_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own __The Avengers, __Thor, __Iron Man,__ nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story._

…

Flu

Raven Ehtar

…

_Day One_

…

Tony went cross-eyed, trying to contort his face so he could focus on the semi-transparent wand sticking out from between his lips. All that he accomplished, however, was creating two blurry shapes to try and bring into focus instead of one. He twisted his mouth around, trying to bring the shape closer to one eye.

"Tony, would you please hold still? The kids are better behaved than you."

"Nnh vilr—"

"And shut up as well, you'll throw off the reading."

Tony stopped trying to read the thermometer stuck under his tongue and pouted up at Pepper. Later he would deny – weakly – that he did anything as childish as pout, but it didn't stop him from doing it shamelessly now.

For her part, Pepper was ignoring his protests, verbal and nonverbal. Instead she was standing over him, something she was able to do because she refused to let him do more than sit up in bed, one hand on her hip and eyes glued on her wristwatch. Tony rather thought she was enjoying the opportunity to play nurse; it gave her carte blanche to boss him around.

Well, he could hardly blame her. He'd probably be crowing a lot more than she was if given the opportunity to boss himself around. What bothered him more were the four other people in the room, a veritable audience gathered around as his temperature was taken, each evidencing various levels of concern.

The most obviously worried were the kids. Loki's three children that had become first legally and then over time in spirit his own, all had eyes glued on him as the procedure went on. Surprisingly enough, Tony thought that Jörmungandr looked the most distressed out of the three. His brows were drawn low and close together over his light blue eyes, which flicked back and forth restlessly between watching Tony and watching Pepper's every move. He had yet to voice any of his anxiety, but he had never been one to speak if he could get by without words. That was as true now as it had ever been.

In contrast, Hela seemed the least interested out of anyone. When Tony had woken with a fever and feeling vaguely of death, she had wandered in with her brothers to see what was wrong. After a few minutes and a single question if he was uncomfortable, she had sat in one of the room's chairs with her tablet and begun reading. She would glance up from time to time, but for the most part she remained hidden behind text and a veil of slightly ragged bangs. They would have to get her hair cut again soon, Tony reminded himself. She looked bored, like the only reason she was still in the room was because everyone else was. Considering the amount of fuss being made, Tony rather wished the rest of the family would take her lead.

Fenrir was a little harder for him to read. Tony wanted to say that he was just as bored as his sister, with less skill at hiding it. He was barely even in the room, standing in the doorway and fidgeting, sometimes pacing away only to come back a few moments later. It wasn't until he noticed that Fen was actually watching the proceedings, particularly whenever Pepper got close to Tony, that he thought the boy cared at all what was going on. Impossible as his current anatomy made it, he thought he could see the boy's ears twitching in irritation.

Sometimes Tony wished they could send the kids to school. Not boarding school, no, never that kind of hell; regular school, where they would get on a bus in the morning and come home in the afternoon. It would make things a lot simpler, not to mention calmer at home to have some adult-only time. But even ignoring their unusual qualities, the three of them had direct links to Tony Stark, multi-billionaire and Iron Man, and Loki, God of Chaos and once enemy of Earth. Those sorts of connections would make them far too tempting as targets, for good and evil people alike. It was safer to keep them close where their fathers and the Avengers, their extended family, could keep watch over them.

And when their particular natures _were_ taken into consideration, the idea of letting them loose in an only semi-controlled environment, full of hyperactive children and a handful of mere human adults keeping watch over them… no. Just no.

Still, it would have made for a less awkward morning than this one was turning out to be.

_Though possibly not_, he thought as he let his eyes drift over to where Loki was standing.

After waking, finding Tony hot to the touch, drafting Pepper – who had come to the Mansion early to drag him into the office – into the job of figuring out what was wrong with him and explaining as best he could what was happening to the triplets, Loki had yet to put on anything other than a loose pair of pajama bottoms. Actually, they were an old pair of hospital scrub bottoms, and Tony had _no_ idea when he would have gotten them, but they were what he wore these days when they were having a lazy night before going to bed. A rumpled Loki was still an odd sight, familiarity doing nothing to acclimatize him.

At the moment, Tony was less distracted by Loki's lack of attire than he was by the daggers being glared in his direction.

It really wasn't fair. It wasn't as though Tony had gone out of his way to get sick, and it wasn't that big of a deal, anyway. It was really Pepper and all this fussing that was keeping him from jumping out of bed. Did Loki think he actually _enjoyed_ all of this? Being kept in bed, (he'd protested that loudly), being poked and prodded with thermometers, (his constant struggles should have been a clue on his thoughts there), or having Pepper lord it over him while he was down? Seriously, that last one should have been a giveaway. Yet there he was, scowling a dirty scowl across the room, green eyes gone toxic, arms crossed over chest. He'd yet to say a thing since Pepper had come in and begun her impromptu examination, but Tony had the sneaking suspicion that he was going to get an earful as soon as they had an idea of how bad his sniffles were.

The thermometer was pulled out of his mouth, clinking against his teeth on the way out. "Owie," he complained for the sake of complaining.

"Oh, grow up, Tony." Pepper squinted at the little glass tube, reading where the mercury had stopped.

He chose to ignore the suggestion. "Don't we have more accurate ways of taking a temperature than that old granny stick?"

"Yes," Pep replied absently. "But this works fine and comes with an added bonus."

"What's that?"

"It makes it hard for you to talk."

Before Tony could retort, Loki finally spoke up, cutting him off. "And what _is_ his temperature?"

Pepper tensed almost imperceptibly at the sound of the Asgardian's voice. She had gotten better over the years, becoming more comfortable in his company. She still took pains to never be alone with him, but she could hold a conversation with him with only the smallest signs of uneasiness. Maybe a better word would be 'accustomed.' Tony doubted that she would ever be 100% at ease with Loki, even if he never showed sign of going evil on them for a straight decade – one could always dream. There would always be something held in reserve. He sometimes wondered if Pep noticed how much effort Loki put into not making her uncomfortable.

For now, that slight tightening of muscles was the only outward sign she gave as she sighed. "It's hovering right around 102 degrees Fahrenheit."

"This is dangerous for humans?"

Pep opened her mouth to speak, but it was Tony's turn to interrupt. "Nope, perfectly normal, I'm right as rain." He began disentangling himself from the bed sheets. "I told you this was all a waste of time—"

Pepper put a hand on his bare chest, chilly against his fevered skin, to keep him from rising. "Tony, don't make me use your own house systems against you." The little pressure she used was pathetically effective in holding him down. Tony pretended to not be as determined as a way of salvaging his dignity. Pep turned to Loki, who watched the demonstration with a raised brow. "Our temperature should be at about 98.6 degrees. Once we hit 100 it's considered a fever, and it gets dangerous for adults at about 104 degrees."

As one, the kids looked up from their various positions to examine Tony, Jör with wide eyes, Hela with a little frown, and Fen with alert attention.

"That is a relatively narrow margin of safety," Loki commented drily. "Are you sure?"

Pep nodded. "It's not as bad as it sounds. These are core body temperatures. So long as he _takes- it- easy-_," she punctuated the words with little presses of her palm, "it shouldn't get any worse."

The eyebrow came back up. "A rather high order, given who it is we're talking about."

"Hey—!"

"What sort of disease has caused this?" he asked, ignoring Tony.

"Most likely either a cold or the flu. They're both fairly common, and the fever says to me that it's flu. Although _someone_," she looked sternly at Tony, "was meant to get a flu shot to prevent this kind of thing."

"You know what those shots are actually good for, right? They're basically just guesswork and only give you a 50/50 chance of immunity."

"50/50 is still better than nothing, Tony."

"Hey, I got the shot, okay?" He shifted a little, wondering how quickly he could get into some warm clothes if he were allowed to get out of bed. The air in the room was unexpectedly chilly. "Not my fault if it couldn't block a sniffle. Besides, that's all it is, so I'm fine to get up and come into the office with you…"

Tony got twin glares from Loki and Pep. Even the kids looked at him incredulously.

"…or not…"

Once they were both satisfied he wouldn't be making a break for the door, Loki pushed away from the wall he'd been propped up against to stand beside Pepper. "Now he has contracted this illness, what do we do to remedy it? Will he require your physicians?"

Again Pep shook her head. "Not unless it gets a lot worse, which I don't see happening. The main things are for him to get rest, plenty of fluids, and bone up on some vitamins. Other than that just keep him comfortable, he should recover on his own in a few days."

A few days. Tony had visions of being watched over by the six foot plus Asgardian, confined to his bed for _a few days_. And not even in the fun way.

He groaned. He was ignored.

Pep looked around at the kids. "I know they must be worried, but you might want to have them keep their distance until Tony gets better. Just so they don't get sick as well."

One side of Loki's mouth quirked up, the closest he'd come to a smile since waking. "Do not concern yourself. With a few notable exceptions, anything that does not kill us within the first five minutes we will recover from. I doubt this illness will even faze any of the children."

Pepper smiled as well, looking across the bed at Jör still hovering nearby. "Lucky them," she said, the two words full of affection. She failed to see the look of warm approval that earned her from the boy's father, distracted as she was by Jör's embarrassed little head duck.

Tony smiled at the byplay. Pepper was still nervous around Loki – fair enough, all things considered – but around the triplets she let her guard down some. They were finding new ways to worm their way further and further into her heart every day, and in doing easing the way for her to accept Loki as well. It was more or less the same with everyone who came into contact with them. What was interesting to observe, though, was just how much it worked in the opposite direction as well, how the affection people genuinely felt for the triplets softened _Loki_ to _them_.

"Well," Pep said briskly, "I was going to drag Tony into the office by his ears to get some work done, but he's no use to me like this."

"Oh, no," Tony put in quickly. "I wouldn't want to leave you high and dry in your hour of need—"

"—that's never bothered you before when it comes to office work—"

"—this little cold isn't enough to keep me down, I can handle a few mountains of paperwork just fine—"

"No."

"_No._"

The double refusal came simultaneously, both speakers glaring down at him. They were able to unite on two things, then: affection for the kids and annoyance for him. Typical.

"Tony, if I catch you trying to get into Stark Industries while you're sick I will have security – _your own security_ – drag you out and all the way back here again. I'll have Happy do it personally, and don't think he won't."

"No need to worry, Ms. Potts." There was a gleam in Loki's eye that Tony decided he really did not like. "You won't see him trying to sneak into your offices. He'll never make it out of this house."

Tony looked back and forth between the two determined faces hovering over him, trying to decide if the shivers he felt coming on were part of the fever, or mild terror at this unprecedentedly united front. He scooted further down into the blankets, _not_ pouting. "No fair, ganging up on a sick man like this."

One of the kids giggled.

"I, on the other hand, still have to go in." Pep stepped back a step from the bed, removing herself from the scene. "I don't have the excuse of sickness, and now I have to put off some things for the next couple of days until you get better." She looked at Loki. "I'm sure the others will help you out with different treatments, or just in keeping him held down."

Loki paused, seeming to give this announcement a little consideration. "Will you be leaving for the offices immediately, Ms. Potts?"

Pep blinked. "Well- yes, I suppose, I—"

"I wonder if you would be willing to keep him occupied for the next few minutes. I will return momentarily."

Without waiting for an answer, Loki blinked out of existence. Pep and Tony stared where he had been standing. Surreptitiously pulling the blankets closer, Tony commented, "After three years, you would think I would be more used to that. But nope, terrifying every time."

"How long have I known you, Tony, and I'm still not used to everything that _you_ throw out there." She looked at him, and just for a moment she looked tired. The same particular kind of tired she had looked back when they had been together, but coming close to the end of their 'together.'

There had been plenty contributing to their relationship issues, long before Loki had ever appeared on the scene. If Tony were honest, he could admit that from the very beginning they had been building on quicksand. Always two steps forward, one and half steps back. This wasn't to say his current relationship wasn't chockfull of its own issues, but with Pepper… They had both tried hard to make it work. Accounts varied on who put in the most effort, but they had both worked hard at it. To see all of that effort not wasted, but still come to nothing, left a bitter aftertaste.

"Hey, monsters," he said, catching the attention of the triplets. "Why don't you run off and find where your dad went, eh?"

Hela looked up from her tablet, leveling the same kind of look on him her father often did, the green intensity not at all lessened for only having one visible eye. Fen, still hovering in the door, cocked his head, and Jör blinked. "But he'll be right back," Jör pointed out, speaking softly as always.

"And JARVIS can tell us if you really want to know," Fen added.

There was a slightly awkward pause in the room. JARVIS, who would normally pop up immediately with information at the mention of his name, remained silent. Finally Hela stood, padded over on one bare and one socked foot, grabbed a handful of her brother's sleeve and towed him out of the room. Fen fussed a little when she did the same to him, but went with all the same. "But it's true, why do _we_ need to go look…?" The petulant voice trailed off and was lost entirely behind a closed door.

Then it only became more awkward.

"Look, Pep," he began, and then realized that he wasn't sure what it was he wanted to say. It was there, right there in his head, ready to be said, what should have been said years ago and a hundred times since, but he couldn't quite form the shape of the words. He knew the feel of what he wanted to express, but the words themselves fled from him, as they always did when he tried to reach for them.

"Look," he started again. "I'm sorry about this. If you really need me to come in, I'm sure I can manage a few hours without collapsing. It's not as though signing papers is all that strenuous."

She stared at him, apparently waiting to see if there was any more forthcoming. When there wasn't, she exhaled in a small huff. "It's fine, Tony. It's kept for the past week; it'll do for a few more days. Just be ready to be worked ragged when you finally _do_ drag your carcass in."

Tony had the distinct impression, now and every other time he had tried to get across this huge _thing_ squatting in his mind that refused to be said, that Pepper understood _exactly_ what it was he was trying to say. She never said that she understood, though, or gave him an easy out by picking up where he sputtered out, filling in the blanks as he stumbled. She let him struggle with it alone, over and over, apparently content to do so until he finally figured it out. It was a mild form of torture Tony thought she probably had a right to.

He sat back into the pillows, tilting his head back, and tried to ignore the fact that it was getting hard to breathe through his nose.

"Fair enough."

…

_Why me?_ Bruce thought to himself, trying to not let the thought show on his face.

He didn't ask for much – well, no, _fine_, he asked for plenty. His personality and abilities combined with circumstances in just such a way that he could ask for quite a lot on a regular basis – new scientific breakthroughs, miracle cures, temporary but invaluable periods of peace, shoes that didn't hurt his feet – and actually have a fair shot at getting them. But relatively, on a personal level, he didn't ask for too much. Coffee in the morning, at least one good meal in a day, a roof, clothes… he'd lived on the run long enough to learn how do without a lot of what his companions considered basic. Truth was, though he now lived in what he considered the lap of luxury, able to exercise his mind and contribute to those causes he cared the most about, what he still _valued_ the most was his personal space.

He took another try at patting his trousers dry – the remains of his morning coffee, proven to still be very hot at the moment of spilling – and tried to think soothing thoughts. Mostly he tried _not_ to think of a half-naked god suddenly appearing in his lab, demanding to know the ABC's of influenza, while at the same time attempting to reconcile this event as his new definition of 'normal.' It wasn't as much of a stretch as it should have been.

"Tony is sick?" he asked, grasping at the one thing he thought he could be certain of.

Loki, hair an uncombed mess and arms crossed over his bare chest in a show of annoyance rather than modesty, nodded. "His temperature has elevated, there is some impediment to his breathing, and his voice is becoming progressively rough. Despite his fever he's seeking more warmth, and he's being quite fractious. Ms. Potts has deemed it 'the flu'."

Bruce nodded at the assessment, continuing to mop at his trouser leg. "Sounds the most likely diagnosis, though the uncooperative attitude is probably just Tony's personality." He looked up at the sleep rumpled god. "You know that I'm not a medical doctor, right?"

"I was given to understand that this is a common enough malady that any _reasonably_ educated human could provide information about it."

"Then why…? Oh, never mind." He was going to ask, if anyone in the Mansion could answer his questions, why had Loki decided to pick on _him_, but decided not to. He could tell by the way the Asgardian stood that he wasn't likely to get a straight answer. It was sometimes hard to predict how Loki would behave, except that very rarely did what he have to say and what was on his mind coincide. His body language was closed, which was also rare, and said that questions would meet with uncharacteristically blunt evasions. Better to just get to the point. "What was it exactly you wanted to know?"

"What to expect, remedies and any possible complications."

"Everything, then." Loki's stare was unblinking. Bruce sighed. Loki's sense of humor was hard to predict at times, as well.

Deciding his pants were as dry as he was going to get them with a handful of paper towels, he tossed the wad into a trash can. "Alright," he said, rubbing his face. "The very basics, then. If it is flu, what you can expect is high temperatures, but only worry if it lasts a long time, say a couple days, or gets higher than 103, 104. Right around there is when you start cooking brain cells. Unless and until it gets there, just keep an eye on it. It's the body's way of fighting the infection. Eventually the fever will break and he'll go from piling on blankets to pouring sweat in a hurry. If the temp gets too high, we have medications to lower it. Other symptoms will be congestion, cough, sore throat, muscle and joint pain, muscle weakness, headache, fatigue and – if it gets really bad – diarrhea and vomiting."

As Bruce listed off symptoms Loki's face gradually shifted from annoyed, to attentive, to incredulous, to mildly horrified. "And this is a common illness for humans?"

Bruce shrugged. "Not as common as the cold, which isn't as severe, but sure."

"No wonder you are all so short lived."

"Could be," he smiled humorlessly. "Depending on who you talk to, the annual rate of flu related deaths ranges somewhere between three and forty-nine thousand."

Loki looked at him, very carefully not looking alarmed. It didn't fool Bruce. Hard to read or not, they had lived and worked in close proximity long enough for Bruce to recognize that look.

He let the Asgardian stew a few moments, enjoying this mild form of stress relief. Sure, it was a little sadistic, but he'd liked these pants, and been looking forward to his coffee, dammit.

"But," he said, taking pity, "most of those are made up of the very young, very old and those whose immune systems are compromised." He pretended to not notice the look of relief break over the other man's face. "As for remedies, there are hundreds, ranging in complexity and effectiveness. Generally, you'll want to help Tony's body to do the job itself. Carbs and sugar will feed the infection, so proteins are better at this point: soups and broth are both good. Water, juice, tea, anything you can get down his trap that's liquid and has vitamins or nutrients will be fine. Keep him comfortable and make sure he rests until he's actually better, which will probably be the biggest challenge."

"I see," Loki said eventually. "Are there any potential complications _other_ than death that I should be aware of?"

"Pneumonia and bronchitis are the worst ones to watch for, where the infection works its way into the lungs. It's why you want to stomp out the influenza as soon as you can, so that doesn't happen. Sinus infections are possible, but not as much of an issue. Although…" Bruce trailed off, a thought occurring.

"What?"

"Well, illnesses like this tend to have negative effects on pre-existing, chronic conditions. I'm not sure about all of the specifics of Tony's arc reactor, but…"

Again the doctor failed to finish his sentence, but he didn't need to. He could see the wheels rapidly turning in Loki's head. However much he tried to hide or obscure it, he really was protective of Tony, and Bruce's vague but ominous caution was likely to throw that into overdrive. Tony was going to hate it.

Bruce wasn't quite able to hide a small smile. Tony had been annoying him lately as well.

…

Tony had never been particularly good at following directions. Sure, as a kid he'd done his best to do as his father had told him – when the old man had bothered to say anything. He had run himself ragged trying to live up to _this_ standard, _that_ dream, and eventually being sent to a boarding school to 'shape up.'

He'd never enjoyed it. Always chafing under the orders of others as a child, now that he was – technically speaking – a big, grown-up adult, he was wont to go against perfectly good advice just because he could. He was aware of the habit, and saddled a lot of the current blame for it on Nick Fury, who seemed to take a delight in bossing him around.

Tony took out his stress in small, mostly harmless rebellions.

"Tony, would you please get back to bed?"

"Nope."

Deciding to get up and walk around was probably not the best of moves, he would admit. He still wasn't fully dressed and missed his warm blankets. They hadn't been warm _enough_, but they were as the surface of the sun compared to the icebox outside them. What joker decided that negative four was an appropriate temperature setting for his mansion?

"Well, that's something I never thought I would hear," Clint said as Tony finished his descent down the stairs and turned into what had been collectively chosen as the Avengers' breakfast nook. He and Natasha were seated at the table, food and coffee spread out between them. Tony was pleased to note that they were using cups this time. Normally he wasn't too picky about table manners, but even he had drawn the line when he'd caught Barton drinking straight out of the coffee pot one morning. The coffee pot where everyone else got their coffee from, mind.

The archer had gotten his own personal tour of the kitchen after that, with special attention given to where the mugs were kept.

"What's that?" He did his best to ignore how cold the place was and the faint beginnings of muscular trembles in his legs as he made a show of studying the food spread out on the table. Pepper followed him, disapproving scowl still in place.

"Playboy Stark saying 'no' to an invitation to bed." Clint grinned at Tony and offered a sly wink at Pep, apparently oblivious to the storm clouds hanging over her head.

"Where have you been the last couple years, Hawkguy? Haven't you heard that Tony Stark has settled down?" He eyeballed the fried eggs and toast. Then he eyed Natasha's hand, twirling her sharp silver fork ever so nonchalantly. She smiled sweetly at him.

Maybe he wasn't so hungry, at that.

Clint snorted, cutting up his own eggs with a kind of sadistic vigor. "Yes, so I hear, and with Loki. I'm not sure if that makes the possibility of a relapse into your old playboy ways more or less dangerous." He looked at Pep again. "Either way, I'd be careful with those propositions, Pepper."

Pepper blinked. "What?"

"Well, showing up and shouting out you wicked designs across the Mansion so anyone can hear. Not exactly stealthy, as plots go."

"A good thing I'm not trying to be stealthy, then," she quipped, not one to be thrown off balance for long.

Clint choked on his bite of fried egg.

Tony looked around, trying to decide if he wanted to risk his own cooking skills. He frowned. "Where are Cap and Thunderdome?"

Natasha didn't look up from patting Clint on the back. "Off somewhere being stealthy. Well, as stealthy as possible in Thor's case."

"Really?" Tony edged around, peeking into the kitchen in hopes of finding some leftovers. Besides, being in motion made it harder to feel the shakes. "I was under the impression that stealth was more of your guys' shtick. Is Fury recruiting more for his little covert clubhouse?"

"I suppose you could say that." She looked up from Clint, who was no longer in danger of passing out due to inhaling his breakfast, to Pepper who was still glowering at Tony. The two women had gotten off to a rocky start to their relationship, what with Natasha taking Pepper's place as Tony's PA when Pepper had taken over Stark Industries – he had been dying at the time, it could hardly count against him as bad judgment, right? And then it had turned out that Natasha was actually a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent meant to spy on Tony. It'd left Pepper feeling wary around her, a sentiment the agent had done little to amend.

Still, despite that lack of action, they got along tolerably well. Maybe it was _because_ Natasha had done so little to improve relations between them that the gap was slowly closing.

"Why does he have to get back to bed, exactly?"

She wasn't exactly scoring any brownie points with Tony, though.

"I don't, _obviously_, because I can walk just fine—"

"He's running a temperature of 102 and he _insists_—"

"—not an invalid, I can function with a cold—"

"—the point is that you don't _have_ to, Tony—"

"—done it with much worse—"

"—and it's always _such_ a good idea—"

"Whoa, alright!" Nat raised her hands referee style, looking between the two of them with exasperation. "You know, sometimes you two are worse than the eleven year olds wandering around."

Tony couldn't resist. He gestured at Pepper. "She started it."

"I did not!" she flashed back, and then winced when she realized what she'd said.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Fine. Tony has a fever, is that what I heard?"

Clint, no longer choking on his breakfast, looked Tony up and down, eyebrow raised. "He doesn't look sick. You sure it's not just his personality?"

"I have been described as 'too hot to handle' in the past," he replied with a grin.

Privately, he was quite pleased that at least one person didn't think he should be restricted to bed rest. It was encouraging that all the effort he was putting into not slumping where he was standing or to let too much of the tiredness creeping up on him show in his face was paying off. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he was going to be thinking quite fondly of his bed soon, and not just for the warm blankets. If he wanted to keep up this pretense he was going to have to find something to do that involved sitting rather soon.

Natasha was looking him up and down as well, and Tony felt his pride deflate a little. Somehow he doubted his act would work as well on her.

"Maybe you should get some rest, Tony," she said, confirming his worry. "At least until the acute phase is over. Clint, Bruce and I are all here, the world will continue to function if you tag out for a bit."

"Yeah," Clint put in. "It's not as though Earth is under any great threats this week. Catch the Z's while you can."

Tony scowled around at them. "You know, to hear you all talk, you would think I was at death's door or something. Sure, I'll take it easy for a few days, but that doesn't mean I'm going to vegetate upstairs, doing _nothing_. That would drive me nuts, and I think everyone can agree _that_ would be bad times for everyone involved."

"Oh, yes," a smooth voice said from the direction of the elevators. "I think those who have never even heard of the great Tony Stark would agree with that assessment."

A small train of people filed into the room. Fenrir bounded in first, his brother following him more sedately. Loki strode in with purpose, looking at Tony with dark disapproval, and Bruce brought up the rear with Hela, looking curious and faintly amused as he steered the little girl along. Tony wondered at Bruce's being there, a vague suspicion worming its way into his brain. Before he could think too much on it, Fenrir crashed into him, arms wrapping around his waist.

"We found him!" he shouted, not noticing Tony's little stumble. He looked up, face creased in a frown. "He was about to come back, anyway."

Tony ruffled the already messy head of blond hair. "I still appreciate it, pup. Thank you."

When he looked back up the dark look on Loki's face hadn't lightened at all; neither had the faintly amused expression on Bruce. In fact the doctor had set himself off to one side, where he could see everyone in the room with little effort, a ready spectator. That did not bode well, in Tony's estimation.

Everyone felt the change of atmosphere when Loki entered the room, and the brewing argument subsided. Rather quickly, Tony found he was sharing center stage of a domestic tableau with the Trickster.

"And what sort of acrobatics do you think you will be getting up to while you are ill?"

Tony sighed theatrically. "No acrobatics, I swear. I just want to work on some projects downstairs—"

"No."

Tony blinked. The refusal had been absolutely flat, brooking no argument. Not that Tony was one to pay heed to little hints like that. He tried to rally. "Look, I've already promised to take it easy. This way I'm confining my infectious self to my workroom where no one else will get sick, and keeping myself from going stir crazy."

"No." The temperature in the room, already an icebox to Tony, dropped even further. Loki stood in the middle of the breakfast nook, in nothing but an old pair of scrub pants and could still look as imposing as he ever did when in his leathers and armor. "Should you spend your day working on your contraptions, your idiotic pride will have you forgetting that promise within an hour. It's your pride that has you on your feet right now, when you should be in bed. We will remedy the problem – and you – by getting you back there _now_."

It was a little disconcerting to realize, as he listened to all of this, that there was very little he could do to keep from being forced into convalescence. In the past he had always outranked anyone who showed concern, or was outside of their sphere of control entirely. Usually these were Pepper, Happy and Rhodey, and yes, he would admit to having vetoed, ignored, or argued out of anything like an instruction to remain in bed. None of those would work in Loki's case.

To everyone's surprise, Tony smiled. "You want me up there," he said through his grin, "you'll have to drag me up there yourself."

His smile was returned with an incredibly sweet one from Loki. "I have a much better idea," he purred.

Loki looked around the room, but ignored the Avenger team members and Pep, all of whom continued to watch the drama unfold. Instead he looked to each of his children. "Kids," he said, smile stretching wickedly. "Fetch."

"Wha-?" Abruptly his waist was released. Now the front of his shirt was being gripped between a set of very sharp teeth, the forepaws of a lanky wolf cub planted on his thighs. Tony stared wolf-Fen in the eye. Fen growled with mock menace, lips wrinkling back and golden eyes flashing. "Wha?" he repeated, genius incarnate.

Jör and Hela had rushed in and clamped down on each of his forearms, the same wicked flash of mischief in Fen's eye reflected in theirs'. Before he could get out a third brilliant 'Wha?' they began towing him forward, out of the breakfast room and towards the stairs. Instead, Tony managed a strangled, "Whoa!"

The triplets were each stronger than they looked, a fact that was driven home when all three were dragging him across the room. At approximately eleven years old – it was hard to pin down an exact age, Loki had tried to explain the math, which Tony had entirely failed to understand – they were stronger than any human child would be, and Fen was far larger and stronger than a wolf cub ought to be. With Tony's strength laughably diminished, Hela pulling on his left arm, Jör on his right and Fen on a mouthful of his shift, Tony didn't stand much chance. Still, he put up a struggle, for the spirit of the thing.

"Hey, hey!" he squawked. "Knock it off, guys, let me go! I swear I'm fine, c'mon! JARVIS! How about a little help, here?"

The AI had the audacity to sound ever-so-slightly amused when he replied. "What would you recommend, sir? Electric shocks?"

It was a good point, but hell, he wasn't being serious. "I don't know, just _do_ something!"

"I'm sorry, sir," the AI responded, not sounding at all apologetic. "But they seem to be acting in your best interests, which coincides with my own directives."

Tony pulled a face. "_Et tu_, JARVIS?"

"I'm afraid so, Caesar. The ides of March is come."

Tony was dragged off, complaining the whole way, two and four legged children towing him along, a smug Loki following along behind. As the sounds of protest interspersed with the occasional word or two from Loki or the kids faded away, the remaining four were left in silence. Clint was the first to break it. "Do you think we should have… I don't know. Come to the rescue on that?"

"He _was_ outnumbered," Bruce said after a moment, trying not to look too pleased with himself.

Natasha sniffed, scooping a spoonful of egg onto her toast. "There are some struggles you just have to let your teammates get through on their own," she said pragmatically.

Clint shuddered. "True."

Pepper rolled her eyes. Still, with so many around him to, one: keep him from overdoing it and, two: nurse him through the worst when it came, she could concentrate on getting things done until he got better. Tony would be fine without her having to hang around, and she could get to rescheduling a lot of appointments and meetings.

Stifling a sigh, Pep said her goodbyes and left the Mansion.

…

Tony would never admit it out loud, but it was probably a very good thing that he had been drug off to bed again.

Under continuing protests and promises to curtail the kids' video game time – and much more intimate privileges in Loki's case – he had been hauled like a congested barge back upstairs and to the bedroom. From there Loki had taken over from the children and tossed Tony into the sheets bodily when he'd refused to get in under his own power.

He could have blamed that on the Asgardian naturally being so much stronger than he was, that he was not only capable of lifting Tony like a bag of feathers and throwing him around, but that he was free to do so with very little resistance. He could also say that he had learned long ago to save himself a lot of aches and pains by picking his fights carefully, except that no one would believe him. Truth was he just didn't have the reserves to put up more than a cursory struggle and a lot of arguing.

Once back in bed, Loki made it very clear via body language and a toxic green glower that he would be well advised to not attempt getting up again. Tony stayed still.

Satisfied that his patient wouldn't be making any further escape attempts, Loki turned to the triplets.

"Alright," he said, and the at-attention postures of all three immediately increased. "Tony is very sick. It may not look like it just now, but from what I understand, it is going to get worse before it gets better." Three sets of worried eyes glanced at him, looking for any sign of his illness suddenly becoming terminal. "We are going to need some supplies to assist us in getting him better. Hela, see what you can find in the way of bottled water and juice and bring as much of it up here as you can. Fenrir," he turned his attention to the boy-in-cub-form when Hela instantly sprinted away. "Get into the storage closets and bring us more blankets. Take note of where the sheets are for later. And see if you can manage some small washcloths, as well."

Fenrir chuffed his understanding and loped off after his sister.

"With your _hands_!" Loki called after the flipping, feathered tail. He looked back down at the final remaining sibling, who stared back up unblinkingly. "Jörmungandr, find Dr. Banner and see what it is we have in the way of medicines for this. He mentioned there were some to assist with high temperature, but I neglected to find which they were."

Jör nodded, and took the path of his siblings, following at a less hurried pace.

With the children set on their various missions, Tony and Loki were left alone in their bedroom. It might have been the past experiences he'd had over the years, but he half expected Loki to begin berating him as soon as they were alone. It wouldn't even matter what he was being berated for, really. Anything from his behavior to having caught a cold in the first place and it would have been very familiar – and expected. Watching the taut lines of muscle in his bare back jump, Tony thought the chances of a tongue lashing were well over 90%.

It never came, though. For a while Loki did not move at all, refused to even turn and look at him. Still mostly sprawled where he had been unceremoniously dumped, Tony refrained from interrupting whatever train of thought was taking place.

When Loki finally did turn around, there was no scowl in place, no glare trying to pierce through him. He was surprisingly neutral.

Tony wasn't sure what to think, or what to do about a non-combative companion approaching him. If Loki would just give him the argument like he was expecting, then he would have something to do other than stare. With the half-dressed Asgardian silently moving around the bed, straightening the blankets and pillows – the words 'tucking in' scuttled treacherously though his mind – he was at a bit of a loss. What was a grown man meant to say in a situation like that?

In the end he suffered himself to be tidied into the bed. Loki seemed to need to have something to do, and being under the blankets again _was_ nice.

Finally satisfied that everything in the bed was as it should be, Tony firmly tucked and propped and the thermometer Pep had brought in set out neatly on the bedside, he looked Tony over intently.

"How are you feeling?"

"_Now_ we're asking? See, I thought the repeated shouts that I was fine would have gotten the message across."

He didn't realize that he'd been hoping his abrasive reply would result in a return of the same until it failed to do so. Loki refused to be baited into an argument, or even to frown. "And we both know what those amounted to. I want an honest answer."

"Kind of a funny thing to hear coming from you."

It was a low blow just to try and press him to a response, but the only one he got was a faint smile. "Perhaps, but indulge me. All of your protestations fool no one, least of all me. This illness has affected you, and the more you insist that it does not, the more obvious it is."

Loki reached out and pressed a hand against his forehead. His palm felt like ice, and Tony shivered involuntarily. "You've grown weaker," Loki murmured. "And despite what you say, you only continue to do so. You're exhausting yourself to appear well. Your eyes have grown bright and you feel like a furnace. There is no point in feigning health when it's plainly deteriorating. So," the long, cool fingers that had carded into his hair tightened against his skull. "How. Do. You. Feel?"

Tony winced at the pressure, even though it didn't hurt, and grinned a little at Loki. "Have I ever told you that you can be a nuisance sometimes?"

"About as often as I remind you of the same."

"That much, huh?" He sighed and shrugged, giving in. "I ache, I guess. I can feel the congestion building up here," he tapped between his brows, "so Kleenex and Aspirin are going to be in my future. And I'm cold," he admitted, and finally allowed himself to nestle into the warmth of the bed, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders. _Gods_ that felt better already!

Looking down at the human burrowing himself into the bedding, a faint line appeared between Loki's brows. Tony couldn't quite interpret the expression, he was too concentrated on suppressing a bout of shivers that was sweeping through him. "You have felt poorly before," Loki said thoughtfully. "But this is the first time I have seen you really ill. Why would that be?"

"An unusually high constitution and clean living?"

Loki snorted, and Tony gave him another grin. It took entirely too much effort to do so. Now that he was in bed again, he was fading fast. He could actually feel a difference in his condition from one moment to the next. It was amazing what a shift in attitude would do. From stubbornly refusing to even admit having the flu to surrendering to being taken care of, and this was how his body responded: by making sure he couldn't change his mind again and spring out of bed, charge down into his workshop and work for a few days straight.

Treacherous thing.

"I was more concerned with why exactly it was that you have contracted this illness _now_, when you have never seemed particularly susceptible in the past. What has changed to make you more vulnerable?"

The bed really was very warm, Tony decided, feeling like he was beginning to thaw. As he warmed he was becoming drowsy as well, the notion of sleep becoming not only agreeable but inevitable. _I must have gotten up too early_, he thought.

"Can't be sure," he replied, hearing as though at a distance how slurred his words were already becoming. "They say idiots can't catch a cold. Maybe I'm getting smarter."

With his eyes drifting shut, Tony heard rather than saw the smile on Loki's lips when he answered. "Small fear of that, Stark."

Yeah, it was probably a very good thing that he had been drug off to bed Tony reflected as he felt sleep make a final tug of his weakening consciousness, dragging him under just as the first of the kids made it back from their assigned tasks. He didn't even make out which it was before the darkness overtook him.

…

Sleep didn't last long, but it certainly had an effect. It felt as though whoever had set the Mansion's temperature controls somewhere in the Arctic Circle before had decided to make a change for the Congo. The blankets he had cocooned himself in were suffocating him rather than providing a haven in an igloo.

He went to kick off the offending covers, but apparently sleep had been a physical struggle. What little strength he'd had before was even less now. The weight of his own legs was almost too much, never mind the two sets of blankets draped over him. He would need a forklift for those, because they obviously weighed several hundred pounds. If only the press could see him now, he thought to himself hazily. The suave Tony Stark, Iron Man the great protector of mankind, completely at the mercy of a couple of comforters wrapped around his legs.

He groaned, the closest he could muster to a snappy one-liner for his fleecy adversary, and geared up for the Herculean effort of kicking.

"Daddy, he's awake! He's awake!"

Something exploded inside Tony's head, and his defiant groan turned into a pathetic – _more_ pathetic – whine of protest. Obviously the congestion had gotten worse if the throbbing in his temples, forehead and more or less his entire face was anything to go by. It was like a mother of a hangover, the residue of the kind of night he'd not enjoyed for a few years.

He buried his face in the pillows, which made breathing only marginally more difficult, abandoning the struggle with his blankets. He was aware of one of the triplets – Fen, he thought – charging out of the room, presumably to fetch Loki.

With any luck he had brewed up a cure for influenza while he'd been asleep, or Tony was sure he'd die within the next hour or two. Cure or death, either one was fine with him.

Weren't naps meant to make you feel better? Shakespeare had called sleep 'Death's counterfeit,' but from available evidence there wasn't too much difference between the counterfeit and the real thing.

"I see the illness is continuing apace, much as was predicted."

Tony came back up from his bastion of pillows, glaring in the general direction of the door. It was difficult to see, not only because his eyes refused to focus but because the room was dimly lit, only weak sunlight managing to muscle its way in through the drapes. Loki was easy to pinpoint, though. A tall silhouette topped with a mop of hair and sporting an insufferable smile. Tony tried for an expression more like a scowl than the already pinched arrangement his features had fallen into. "Please tell me you have concocted a cure for this, before the real fun starts."

The smile quirked, becoming a smirk. "And become known as a kindly god, bestowing favors of health upon the populace? Thank you, no."

Sitting up was too much work. Tony let gravity have him, flopping to his side. "What if I promised to be a complete bastard and not share it with anyone on Earth?"

"While I don't doubt your ability to act so, I think you would fall back on your more philanthropic habits once you were feeling better."

"Probably," he agreed, and sniffed hard. His sinuses, though, were well and truly blocked, and no amount of snuffling was going to clear them. "It might be a different story if you catch me later."

"Not so difficult a feat," Loki commented. "I doubt you could outrun a lame goat."

He made Tony shift a little to make room for him to perch on the edge of the bed. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, but it had been long enough for Loki to get dressed in slacks and a loose fitting tunic, his casual wear for home. Which probably meant he'd had breakfast already, and if he had then so had the kids. Tony found himself wondering what everyone had eaten without him, which quickly expanded to wonder what had been going on generally while he slept. Maybe he could get JARVIS to give him a briefing on the highlights.

A chilly hand pressed itself against his forehead. He batted at it, weakly. "Yes, thank you, I still have a fever." He made another feeble attempt at extracting his legs from the blankets. "Feels like a sauna in here."

Loki watched his struggles thoughtfully. "No more chills," he said to himself. "But still an elevated temperature and no sweating. How do you feel?"

"Like the beginnings of death," Tony grumbled. "Everything hurts, nothing wants to move, and it feels like my head was put in a vise." He sniffled again, grimacing. "And I think the waterworks has started up. No doubt it will get worse before it gets better," he sighed.

Loki raised an eyebrow at him, then picked up a box of tissues from the bedside table and thrust it under his running nose. "Not if I am to have any say in the matter it won't."

Tony took a fistful of tissues gratefully, casting an eye over the surface of the bedside table. It had changed since he was last conscious. Normally it was the resting place for a lamp, clock, a glass half-filled with something drinkable, and whatever he was most recently reading. Now it looked a little like a school nurse's top drawer. A thermometer, five sealed bottles of water and juice, a jar of Vicks, a pink bottle Tony assumed was Pepto-Bismol the same way he assumed the smaller white bottles were pain relievers, boxes of decongestant, a package of crackers, a jar of peanut butter and a knife, a couple of empty mugs, what he thought was a box of teabags and – Tony was rather impressed with this – an electric tea kettle set up and ready to boil. When he leaned over the edge of the bed to toss the damp tissues into the garbage he also found two mini ice chests, one empty and one full of damp washcloths, and an empty bucket.

He sat back up, his turn to raise a questioning eyebrow. "And since when have you been such an expert on human illnesses?"

The smirk widened. Loki looked supremely pleased with himself. "This morning. Now," he set down the box of tissues, trading it for the thermometer, "let's see just how high this fever is, shall we?"

Protesting was a lost cause, so Tony suffered to have the old granny stick stuck between his teeth again, trying to shake a vague feeling of déjà vu.

…

"Stark is not feeling well?"

Clint shook his head, still flipping through channel after channel of trash TV, hoping against hope that a wider selection than his own basic cable plan at home would equal more hits than he was used to. He was quickly becoming disappointed, though far from disillusioned. It seemed to be one of the Laws of Murphy that flew right in the face of the Laws of Math. With a greater number of stations to choose from, there should have been a correspondingly higher percentage of them that were tolerable. But no, that number was exactly the same: two.

Sighing, he tossed the remote when he came back around to the more endurable of the two channels and looked back over his shoulder. Thor and Cap had gotten back from their covert mission sooner than expected, and from the sound of it, it had been less than covert in the end. Which might go some way to explain why it had finished up early; Cap had looked rather annoyed when they had trudged through the door, and Thor as contrite as was possible for a 6' 3" powerhouse to be. Clint made a mental note to ask for stories later.

"Yeah," he said. "Pepper came in early this morning to get the jump on him over some office stuff, I think. Left saying he had a temperature and should stay home."

Thor's brows came low over the bridge of his nose, while Cap's rose to his hairline. He cast a glance towards the stairs leading up to the second floor and the bedrooms. "Ms. Potts always has been a very… tenacious sort of woman. It must be pretty serious for her to tell Tony _not _to work."

Clint shrugged. "Hard to tell with her, and with him. He wandered down before she left and he looked alright. Maybe a little out of it, but you know – walking and talking, all parts in working order."

"What is being done?" Thor asked, concern evident in every line of him.

"Well, after Pepper left for Stark Industries, your brother dragged Tony back upstairs to enforce some bed rest. Though from the sound of it, he would have to enforce it with a rope. That was nearly two hours ago and I haven't heard anything out of Tony since, so I'm assuming that he's resting as ordered. Loki and the kids have been charging around and interrogating everyone about flu remedies. It's all been rather surreal."

Thor nodded. "If Loki is looking after Stark, then whatever the ailment, it will not last long. My brother is most talented with healing magics and very determined."

Clint was a little skeptical, but decided not to comment. He hadn't done it often to begin with, but he had learned not to let his mouth run in front of Thor where it concerned opinions on his brother.

Cap was looking around the large living room curiously. Still in his mission gear it made him look like he was on task in the middle of the Avenger's Mansion. "Where is everyone now?"

"Pepper is at Stark Industries, I'm here, tall, green and brainy is in his brain cave, Tasha's gone out somewhere, and Tony's upstairs. Fen came pelting out of there a little while back, yipping that Tony was awake, so I'm assuming that's where Loki is now. As for the other two little ones, I sorta lost track." He turned and stretched out on the sofa, pleased to have the whole thing to himself. "They both seemed pretty into their projects, though, so I doubt we need to worry about any fires."

"Indeed not, Mr. Barton," a synthetic voice informed him, making the archer jump out of his relaxed lounge. "I can assure you that _I_ am quite capable of monitoring each of the children, and all are behaving well, with no indication of setting anything aflame, purposefully or otherwise."

Heart still pounding, Clint glared at the ceiling. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that thing," he grumbled.

Ignoring his teammate, Steve also looked up, a habit all of the Avengers had taken to when communicating with the Mansion's AI system. "Where are they right now, JARVIS?"

"Fenrir is currently just outside the master bedroom, Hela is ensconced in the back kitchen, and Jörmungandr is with Dr. Banner in research laboratory three." The AI listed them all off smoothly and coolly.

On the surface it was the completely emotionless voice of a very sophisticated computer, but Clint was sure he could hear the slightest tinge of smug amusement lurking in the words. It hadn't taken very long for everyone on the team to discover Clint's mild but persistent fear of intelligent robotics, precipitated by watching far too many films where man has created what he cannot control and is summarily destroyed. It wasn't enough to make him spurn the use of robotics or smart computers, though. They were becoming far too prevalent, too useful, and in some cases, too much _required_ to spurn. He learned to get over or ignore his discomfort in most cases, but JARVIS made him nervous. He was sure that the system was really much closer to a true, strong artificial intelligence than Tony would have generally known – for obvious reasons. He was also sure that JARVIS was just as aware of his mild paranoia and took a positive delight in it, finding ways of subtly exploiting it.

Natasha said that line of thinking was just his paranoia showing through even more.

Cap was looking over at Thor, giving a half shrug. "You want to go up and check on him?"

Thor nodded. "Indeed. It's only right to show solidarity to a comrade who is low." He glanced at Clint meaningfully. "Will you come as well, Barton?"

The archer waved his hand, flopping back down onto the sofa. "Thanks, but I've already paid my respects to the dying, shown my brotherly solidarity and all that. Unless he's taken a serious turn for the worse – which I doubt – I'm staying out of the way. He has enough nurses."

Cap raised a brow at the veiled meaning but nodded. "Sure thing," was all he said, and drew the big Asgardian away with him to the stairs.

Clint smiled faintly at their backs, turned back to the barely acceptable program, wondering if he should just switch it off. You could always depend on Cap being a diplomat, which with this particular group was a must-have skill. Only occasionally was _he_ a source of friction, and he had gotten better at smoothing that over. For a dude from the 40's, he was alright.

He turned the television off, opting for silence and possibly a nap. It wouldn't hurt to take the advice he'd given to Tony and catch some Z's. He was just digging his shoulders into the couch cushions when a voice made him jump for a second time.

"You appear bored, Mr. Barton. Would you like me to provide you with some form of entertainment?"

There was definitely a note of malicious humor in that voice. He could hear the damn computer laughing at him.

"No thanks, JARVIS, I'm fine."

"I thought perhaps you might enjoy a film. Perhaps _Terminator_? Or _2001: A Space Odyssey_?"

Clint growled. "Thanks. _No_."

…

Captain Steve Rogers, decorated war veteran and member of two separate 'superhero' teams, was at something of a loss with the situation he now found himself faced with. He had gone to comfort fellows and comrades at arms who were struck down before – and usually in a much more literal sense of the phrase than when someone had a cold. At the moment, though, none of his past experience was helping in the least. And he and Thor hadn't even gotten through the door yet.

"Well," he said, careful to keep his tone as steady and nonthreatening as possible. "Have _you_ ever had to deal with anything like this, Thor?"

He shook his head. Steve felt a little bad for him. If anything, he looked even more confused than Steve felt, and a little hurt. "I have not, Captain. While I have heard of this sort of behavior from my nephew, he has never before bared fang to _me_."

For some reason that surprised Steve, but he couldn't think why. In the three years since Loki and the triplets had become regular features among the Avengers he had never seen more than the usual spats of childish temper out of Fenrir. Well, normal and translated through the very un-normal circumstances of sometimes being a wolf cub.

A wolf cub that was, yes, baring a set of very white, very sharp teeth at them, lips wrinkled back, ears flat against his skull, eyes glaring menace. He had planted himself in front of the closed door to Tony and Loki's bedroom suite, evidencing no intention to either move or allow the two visitors to pass through. Fenrir was only a cub, it was true, and possessed all the strung out lankiness of a partly grown puppy, but he was still a fair sight larger than a full grown German Shepard. Cub or not, Steve had no desire to wrestle with anything so large that looked so ready to _use_ those fangs.

Besides which, this was Fenrir, and he was fond of the boy and his siblings, even if _they_ never had completely taken to _him_.

Steve shifted slightly and the low, constant growl coming from Fenrir immediately increased in volume, yellow eyes fixing on him, legs going stiff. Steve went utterly still, the warning clear even if the reason for it was not. He didn't think he had ever really noticed how wicked the cub's black nails looked before, a compliment to the white fangs.

Deliberately keeping his tone light and bantering, he risked another question. "Did any of those folks happen to mention, maybe, how to deal with this kind of behavior when it sprung up?"

Thor snorted. "Nothing I would care to repeat," he said blandly.

He wouldn't risk breaking the stare down he had going with Fenrir to glance in Thor's direction, but he didn't really need to. He knew what kind of expression the Asgardian wore. It would be the same one he wore whenever a certain period of his niece and nephews' past was referred to – closed, faintly ironic. It was best to avoid those lines of conversation, so Steve let it drop. Instead he turned his attention to getting past a bristling ball of fur without encountering any teeth along the way.

Slowly, Steve squatted down in front of Fenrir until he was eye to eye. They boy-cub's growls never ceased, but Steve was somewhat reassured that they had quieted some, were not resurging in response to his change in position. What was less reassuring was the knowledge that Fenrir would recognize that Steve was actually less of a threat and less able to defend himself from that position.

"Hey there, Fen," he said softly. "How's about letting us in to see Tony, eh?"

The lips wrinkled back even further, until pink gums were revealed.

"We know Tony's not feeling well," he persisted. "That's why we're here. We wanted to check on him."

The glaring eyes did not become one bit less belligerent in face of Steve's reassurances. Nor did they change at all when the rest of the cub did, his body seeming to jump, flicker and remain still all at once as he shifted back to a human shape. The golden glare was just the same on the rumpled boy as it had been on the irate wolf.

"Iron-daddy is sick," Fenrir informed them, sounding just as ready for a fight when not snarling. "And dad is already inside taking care of him."

"How ill is friend Tony, nephew?" Steve noticed that Thor was also keeping his words purposefully gentle.

The kid's glower softened a touch, and he shrugged. "He slept a long time, and he doesn't want to get up anymore. Dad is checking if his fever is worse."

Thor cast Steve a worried glance. The worry of both he and Fenrir was understandable, Steve supposed. Tony was important to them both for different reasons, and in the last three years he couldn't recall anyone within close contact of the aliens getting anything worse than a bout of allergies. They must have seen some of the diseases humans were prone to; television, the internet and sporadic contact with the general population would provide that opportunity, but nothing close at hand had ever arisen.

The lack of experience wasn't too surprising, now Steve came to think about it. The super soldier serum kept him more or less immune to anything not specifically engineered to attack his system, gamma radiation seemed to do much the same for Dr. Banner, and he was beginning to suspect Natasha had something a little extra in her system as well, because he'd never seen her so much as sneeze. The most vulnerable members of their group were Clint – who did have his own apartment building he went back to from time to time – and Tony.

It was delayed, but the time to witness human frailty up close and personal had finally come for the little family.

He nodded his understanding and stood again, making Fen crane his neck to look up in his face. "Alright, well, that's what we're here for, Fen. We'll go in and see if there's anything we can do, anything we can get for them."

Fenrir straightened up, glare snapping back into place. When Steve went to take a step towards the door the boy got in his way, barring the door. "No, you won't," he said.

Steve came up short. Thor tilted his head at his nephew. "Why not, Fenrir? You know we would not cause Tony any sort of harm. Why do you bar our way?"

"Because father told me to," the boy said, raising his chin.

"He told you to keep us from coming in to see him?" Steve was incredulous.

"Not just you. He said to keep out anyone who did not have business coming in. They would just be bothersome and get in the way. You want to know how he is, I told you. You want to help, father is already doing that. If there wasn't anything else you wanted or can do, you can't come in."

Steve stared, but Thor laughed. "And they could hardly want for a better guardian! Very well, then, young warrior, what errand would grant us access to the sickroom?"

"An official visit," was the prompt reply.

"An 'official' visit?" Steve demanded, patience growing thin. "We're here to visit already, what could possibly make it 'official'?"

Again, the reply was prompt. "A gift."

"What?"

Fenrir was calm in the face of Steve's scandalized tone. "We've been studying," he said. "And one of the things Hela found was a human custom of bringing a present to the one who is sick when paying a visit. It's supposed to be something to make them feel better and to apologize for disturbing them."

Thor was smiling when he looked over at Steve. "A very considerate custom. Think you we can find gifts suitable for such a thing?"

Steve nodded, privately happy that the gifts were meant for _Tony_, and Fenrir hadn't found a crude way of taking advantage of the situation. "Yeah, I think so. Though if this is what we can expect every time we come up, I think Tony will be getting fewer visits than he would normally."

Leaving a satisfied Fenrir still standing guard over the door, Steve led Thor back down the stairs to hunt up gifts to make their visit 'official.'

…

"So what's the verdict, nurse?"

Loki squinted narrowly at the glass held pinched between his fingers. Tony had seen him concentrate on small things before, those times when he had caught him working on some meticulous bit of unknowable hocus-pocus, but there was something oddly charming about his eyes going crossed when trying to read the mercury level of a thermometer. It was one of the most domestic things he had ever seen Loki do, and he'd seen the man prepare lunch for three kids.

Maybe it was just the fever affecting his brain.

"It would appear that your temperature has neither risen nor fallen," Loki said, setting the little instrument back on the side table.

"So still 102?"

"If I'm interpreting that archaic device correctly," he said with a wave at the offending item.

Tony smiled. It was funny sometimes how they came to have the same opinions on certain points. Tony tended to think of a vast number of man's everyday advancements as outmoded and fit to be replaced – the thermometer was a good example. Loki thought much the same, but while in Tony's case it was because he had so many much _better_ advancements he was designing himself, for Loki it stemmed from coming from a society that had long surpassed anything mankind had come up with. It was a personal challenge Tony set himself to impress Loki as much and as often as possible with his creations. It wasn't easy.

He shifted into something closer to a sitting position. "Alright then, what's the plan? Do you intend on keeping me confined to bed all day?"

"Several, in fact, with only brief intervals allowed for the lavatory."

"Promises, promises," Tony said, essaying one of his most suggestive grins. "Suddenly I'm appreciating this 'nurse' thing you have going on a lot more than before."

Loki blinked slowly at him. "There will be none of that."

"Fine, 'doctor' will work just as well. We just need to get you a long white coat – Bruce probably has some spares – and a stethoscope, and we should be—"

"I mean no strenuous activity until you're well again, Stark. From what I understand that can take from several days to more than a week. Until _I_ am satisfied that your rising won't cause you to worsen or relapse, you will remain here."

"…so you're saying the doctor thing is still a possibility later on?"

"Stark, focus."

"Oh, I _am_ focused. You have no idea how focused this idea has made me."

Loki sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Tony was a little proud of himself that even sick he could still annoy enough to cause a physical reaction. Childish, yes, but should that make it any less a valid form of entertainment?

He relented in his torment a little. "I hope you're planning on letting me have some of the less carnal forms of entertainment, because if I'm going to be stuck here with absolutely nothing to do for a week I really will go mad."

That earned him a look. "And woe to the race that would witness your insanity, if this is what you are like sane." He leaned down and reached for something out of Tony's line of sight, on the floor. "But I am aware of your more prosaic needs. I don't think a certain amount of mental exercise will do you much harm."

He brought up a small stack and set it down on the bed between them. It included one of Tony's laptops, two tablets, a book and two physical file folders stuffed full.

Tony felt his face brighten at the sight and sifted through the pile eagerly. "Oh, honey, you really _do_ know me!"

Loki scoffed. "Yes, well, as you say, you'll go mad without something to do. And if I were not the one to provide these, then you would find a way to recruit that infernal house system of yours to do so, or the children."

"There's something I've been meaning to ask," he said, still flipping through the files. "Where are the scamps? Did the team take them out or something?"

"Oh, no. They have been most helpful in researching human disease and remedies." He smiled. It was the kind of smile that Tony had learned to view with automatic suspicion.

"Uh-huh. And just what is it they are doing that's so helpful?"

The mischievous sparkle in Loki's eye did very little to reassure him. "Only what is appropriate and fitting to their natures. Jörmungandr is learning all he can get out of Dr. Banner on the specifics of the human immune system, Hela is experimenting with the preparation of remedies, and Fenrir is guarding the bedroom door."

"Could be worse, I guess." He paused, giving the description some thought. "Wait, what do you mean he's guarding the door? Guarding it from what?"

"Unnecessary intrusions into the sickroom," Loki responded coolly, and then stood, brushing off imaginary lint from his pants. "And speaking of the children, I should go and check on them, now that you have been dealt with." He made towards the door, long legs making the distance short.

"'_Dealt_ with'?"

"If you need anything I'm sure you'll find a way to make the entire house aware of the fact." He tossed this last over his shoulder. As the door opened Tony caught a glimpse of Fen, who peeked in curiously but made no move to come in. Tony supposed that meant what Loki said was true, though he suspected that the boy was out there as much to keep him _in_ as anyone else _out_.

The door clicked shut behind Loki's back, cutting off the view of the boy and all of his ineffectual protests. Tony fell silent, staring at the door. He wondered if he should chase after Loki just to be difficult, if he should be doing something to reign in the enthusiasm of Loki and the kids, or if he should take advantage of his condition to absolve himself of any and all responsibility for now.

It didn't take long to choose, and as his computer began to boot up he cracked open one of the bottles of orange juice left for him.

…

"Are you sure that you got the right idea for giving gifts to someone who is sick, Thor?" Steve asked, casting a sideways glance at the thing Thor intended to offer Tony, clasped firmly in both of the prince's hands. It had to be gripped firmly, because even for the ox of an Asgardian it was large and unwieldy, though Steve didn't doubt that he _could_ wield it if and when the occasion called for it.

Proving his unvoiced summation, Thor flipped the hilt over in his hands, bringing the gleaming metal of the scimitar up to his eye for examination. A faint line appeared between his brows. "Do you think the style is not to his taste?"

"Well, no, it's not that," Steve deliberated. "It's just that weaponry isn't what one usually thinks of when it comes to gifts for folks who are laid up."

The look of concern immediately lightened. "But Stark is a warrior," he said cheerfully, setting the blade that was almost as long as he was tall on one shoulder. "And warriors will always appreciate a well-crafted weapon, even when ill; sometimes even more so when they are unwell. It gives them reason to recover, to wield and master it."

Steve eyed the blade again. "I'd like to see him master that. It's taller than he is."

Thor grinned wide. "Yes, that is why I chose _this_ one."

They laughed, and made their way up the stairs for the second time that day. It hadn't taken long for them to each find a potential offering once they had separated, and had met up again out of coincidence rather than design. As they mounted the stairs, it was Thor's turn to look at what Steve held in his hands.

"And your gift, Captain? Is that another Midgardian custom to give… foliage?"

Steve glanced down and gave what he held a disparaging look. When he had set out in search of something that could work as a gift for Tony he hadn't given it too much thought. Finding something to serve as a kind of permit to get past the miniature guard at his door should have been simplicity itself. But then, nothing he could think of and readily get his hands on seemed right. It was just a small token gift, but it was still for _Tony_. What could he give that the billionaire didn't already have, or could get with a word?

So he had given up on finding anything even remotely clever or thoughtful, gone outside to the Mansion's gardens and picked a large bouquet of flowers.

He glared at the effeminate bundle – he really hoped there would be no mixed messages derived from this – as though it were there specifically to embarrass the hell out of him. "It is kind of a standard thing, yes," he said with as much dignity as possible.

"It is just that I've never known Stark to be overly fond of flowers, nor for those particular breeds to be good for Midgard disease."

"No, I suppose not." He doubted even the most determined of herbalists could look at his handful of daffodils, crocuses and snowdrops and see a cure for as much as a sliver. He shrugged. "But this is mostly to placate your nephew, not Tony. I doubt he'll care much one way or the other what I bring. But I'm sure he'll love yours," he added swiftly.

Feeling ridiculous holding his bouquet – still in his field uniform – and following a man carrying a sword fit for taking down horses, they mounted the rest of the stairs and turned towards the master suite.

Fenrir was still at his post, and had elected to remain in human shape. He sat in the shallow corner created by the wide doorway, eyes fixed on a small device in his hands, his whole slight frame curled around it in concentration. Even from a distance Steve could recognize it as a handheld gaming system, and from the sounds emitting from it, he surmised that the boy was playing a fighting game of some sort. It was the kind that Fen tended to favor.

The illusion that the game completely held Fenrir's attention lasted only an instant. As soon as they cleared the bend in the hall to bring them in sight of the door, his head snapped up, and it was as though his stare from earlier had never left them. His game was forgotten, and with a crescendo of pixelated noise whatever hero he had been controlling fell in battle. He watched their approach, standing to his feet. Steve was happier than he cared to admit that there were no snarls or growls to greet them this time.

When they were near enough, he set about examining the gifts they brought, starting with Thor's. There was no way the boy could have held it himself, even if he was much stronger than a boy his size had a right to be. Instead, Thor held it out for him, low so it was at eye level, its length parallel to the floor. Fen looked it over minutely from hilt to point, as though searching for some flaw in the craftsmanship to disqualify it, his tiny nostrils flaring regularly. It was a habit of his, even when human shaped, to sniff and smell everything he came into contact with.

Apparently Fen liked what he saw, and his nose gave no argument. He grinned brightly up at his uncle, a much friendlier showing of his teeth. "It's great, uncle, he'll love it!"

The grin was reflected in the brawny Asgardian and he stood aside to let the boy repeat his examination with Steve.

Ridiculously, Steve felt the embarrassment in him surge when he came under the shrewd golden gaze of an eleven year old boy. Staring at the bright white and yellow bundle in his hands, Fenrir tilted his head as though he couldn't comprehend what it was. When he raised his eyes up to Steve's face it was with a look of pitying incredulity.

The warm flush on his face only increased, feeding on itself, embarrassed that he _was_ embarrassed as he presented the flowers for inspection.

It seemed to Steve that he made a great show of looking over the flowers, checking each one as though he had never seen blooms before in his life. His snuffling became more pronounced than it had when checking the scimitar, snorting several times to clear his nose, and in the end the boy sneezed to the side.

Fenrir shook his head at Steve. "No good. They're pretty, but he's having trouble breathing already."

The warmth in Steve's cheeks spread to his ears. "Yes, but that's because he's sick," he protested. "I don't think pollen will make it any worse."

Fen's eyes glinted warningly at him. "How can you know for sure, huh? How do you _know_ it won't make him worse? If it does, then you coming to visit will only be to the bad. No," he said, crossing his arms. "You have to find something else."

"Wha—you have got to be joking! According to your own rules all I needed to bring was a gift to be considered an 'official' visitor. I brought a present. I'm official. Now let me in."

But the boy wouldn't budge under the logic. "No. You brought a present, but it's not a good present. It's like not bringing one at all. You can't come in."

"Fenrir." Steve tried for a warning tone of voice. As with the very few times he had tried it before, it had zero effect.

Thor, still watching the exchange with what Steve was wont to consider poorly disguised amusement, tried to step in on his comrade's behalf. "Nephew, Captain Rogers _has_ made an effort, and Stark will no doubt appreciate that effort – and his company – even if the results of his efforts are a little…" he hesitated, eyeing the bouquet. "Peculiar."

The boy looked up at him, his stern expression hardly softening. "Would you have me fail at my post, uncle? This is my first time to officially protect someone, and I can't make exceptions or it will all come apart, and I'll never be trusted with another." He shook his head, coming back to Steve. "No. Try again."

At the final refusal Thor looked helplessly at Steve, apologetic smile spreading awkwardly over his face, shoulders shrugging almost imperceptibly. If he were worried that Steve's temper would sour even further, then he worried needlessly. Steve did feel the prickling of annoyance, but it was dampened by Fenrir's line of reasoning.

Steve nodded with only a trace of ill grace. "Alright, then. I'll hunt up something better." He looked down at the flowers. "And put these in water somewhere," he added.

"Would you care for company, Captain?" Thor offered as he turned to leave.

"No thanks," he called back over his shoulder. "You go ahead and see Tony, I'll get there eventually."

Traipsing back down the stairs, Steve wondered what he could find that would work for Tony as a gift and at the same time satisfy the tiny sentry at his door.

…

"Hey there, big guy!" Tony greeted, and internally winced when he realized how nasal he sounded even compared to when speaking to Loki, not an hour ago. He did his best to ignore it and to open his throat so it would be less obvious, and nodded Thor's way. "What's with the cutlery?"

The big Asgardian, outfitted in what he probably considered relaxed clothing and what Tony thought of as light battle gear, grinned and hefted the huge, glinting scimitar. "Tis for you, my friend," he boomed cheerfully. With one hand he held up the weapon for him to see, and apparently without much effort, set it to a few lazy spins, the edge flashing lethally as it clove through the air.

"Very impressive," was Tony's honest assessment. "But why give it to me, what's the occasion?"

Thor slowed his acrobatic display of the weapon, resting the point at his feet. Tony wondered how much damage was being done to his floor. "It was my understanding it was a Midgardian custom to bring offerings when coming to see the sick and injured. We have learned of your illness, and so I bring a gift." A somewhat mischievous grin spread over his face. "That is certainly what Fenrir believes as well. He is guarding the door to ensure no paltry gifts make it to you. Only the best will do."

After a moment Tony grinned as well. "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, yes, there is that custom, but it's more of a courtesy than a rule."

"Ah. Perhaps I should tell Fenrir of this. He's following the custom most scrupulously. He even turned Captain Rogers and I away to find gifts before he would let us in."

Tony chuckled. "Really? Well, can't fault the kid for shirking his duties. Loki said he'd been stationed out there as a kind of filtering system." He paused, looking pointedly around. "Which is a point: where is Rogers? Did the skinflint decide to forgo a visit if there was a cover charge?"

If anything, Thor's smile widened. "No, my friend. The Captain was turned away for a second time for failing to bring a satisfactory gift."

Tony stared, searching for some sign the bigger man was joking, but he only continued to grin contentedly. "No way," he finally got out, forgetting to correct his voice and coming out a bit frog-like. "Rogers got bounced?"

Thor nodded confirmation. "He's seeking something that will grant him access even now."

"Well," Tony said with mock seriousness. "Maybe we _shouldn't_ tell Fenrir yet that the custom is flexible. Wouldn't want to spoil his fun with the good super soldier, would we?"

The two of them laughed, and Tony felt a little better. Sitting up, even if it was just to cruise around is miscellaneous files on his computer and stare dumbly at them, had done a lot to shake off the feeling of impending death he'd had on waking. But sharing a good laugh helped, too. It was nice to have this, this feeling of camaraderie. It had taken time to achieve it, to exit his shell enough to interact with people on more than a superficial, sarcastic level, and even now it was sometimes exhausting to do so, but he had gotten there. Even with Thor he could now honestly share a laugh – true, at the slight expense of another teammate, but that was alright. No point in trying to be saintly about anything.

"It's a thing of beauty," Tony said about his odd gift. "I look forward to injuring myself many times in effort to handle it."

Thor looked pleased, and moved to set the weapon against a wall, out of the way but still plainly in sight.

"And how are you feeling, my friend?" he asked on returning. "From how Clint was describing your illness I thought it no trifling thing, but you appear to not be much weakened."

Tony's smile took on a sardonic twist. "Comes from sitting down, big guy. Hardly anyone looks as bad as they feel when they sit." He shook his head. "But no, it's not too bad. Fever," he pointed at his own nose, "congestion, obviously, aches and pains, the works for this kind of thing. Minus one or two of the ickier symptoms," he added with a rueful glance in the direction of the empty bucket, ready and waiting for him. So far no nausea, with luck he wouldn't need the damned thing.

"I am glad," Thor said earnestly. "I worried that this disease might take you from us for some weeks. Our strength would be greatly lessened without you."

"I appreciate that. But the flu shouldn't have me out of the game for very long. So long as nothing that threatens world safety crops up in the next week," he knocked superstitiously on the headboard, "then I think we'll be pretty safe."

"That is how long you foresee this bout lasting, then?" Moving with excessive care, Thor lowered himself to perch on the edge of the bed near to Tony's feet.

He shrugged. "It's about how long flus last, unless there are complications. Which isn't likely to happen," he was quick to add when Thor's expression clouded. "It's the kind of thing that happens when you aren't careful or there's something else going on to make you more susceptible. I'm not particularly susceptible, and I think your brother is going to be fussing too much for the virus to dare sticking around."

"This is true," Thor said, and the fondness with which he spoke was palpable. "He is one to do a thing thoroughly, and I don't doubt that when it comes to your health he will throw himself to task."

"Even if it kills me," Tony commented drily.

"If he believes that it will help you in the long run," he agreed cheerfully.

The door opened. "What will I do it I think it will help?"

Tony and Thor both looked to the door. Loki stood in the threshold holding a small tray, a steaming bowl set in its center. Hela followed him into the room, looking in curiously at Tony's visitor. Behind both of them Tony could just see Fenrir, in cub form, his nose up and sniffing at the air. Whatever it was he scented wasn't enough to get him to abandon his post, though, and he was lost to sight as the door closed again.

"Kill me with kindness," Tony provided. His sense of smell was nowhere near as keen as Fen's, and was only getting worse as his sinuses slowly blocked up, but he could just make out some of the aroma being carried on the tendrils of steam rising from the bowl. It smelled good, a little spicy and meaty, like a stew. He couldn't see what was in the bowl, but the scent was more than enough to remind him that he had yet to actually have breakfast, despite his earlier attempt, and it was already well into noon. Doing his best to hold back the drool, he nodded at the approaching tray. "What's this?"

Hela, who had trotted forward ahead of her father to stand at the side of the bed, answered before Loki could get a word out. "It's food to make you feel better. We did a lot of research to make it. It's supposed to make you strong to fight the flu!"

Tony smiled at the girl. "And did you boss your dad around while you were making it?"

She nodded. This was a familiar game. "Yes!"

"Good girl."

It was a familiar enough game that Loki gave no response. He was too busy giving Thor a very pointed look, making the brother vacate his perch rather awkwardly and shuffle out of the way. That done, he took a handful of Hela's clothes and lifted her off of the ground as though she were a kitten. She squeaked with surprise.

"Indeed she did," he said mildly, setting her down gently in the spot Thor had freed. She quickly crawled her way up the bed until she was sitting next to Tony, using the headboard as a back support. "She has been learning well from all the time she spends in that cataclysm you call a workshop."

Tony raised a brow at his partner. "I hope you're not suggesting, _dearest_, that I am the only one who gives an example of being bossy."

"Certainly not," Loki replied readily enough. Tony nodded, satisfied, until he continued with, "Captain Rogers does his fair share as well."

Tony pulled a face at him and Hela giggled.

Any further quips were forestalled by Loki's quickly plucking away the computer in Tony's lap and replacing it with the tray, which had small unfolding legs to turn it into a short table that arched over his legs. The bowl and its tantalizing cloud of steam came directly under his nose, which had the pleasant side effect of clearing his sinuses a little.

It _was_ a kind of stew, Tony decided when he got a good look at it, but lighter in color than the kinds he was used to. It looked more like chicken soup, to be honest, but the large pieces of meat were certainly not poultry, and no chicken soup he'd ever had included generous cubes of potato. Stew seemed the more likely possibility.

"Well, are you just going to sit and stare at it, or are you going to _eat_ the food that we made for you?" Loki snapped.

Tony jumped, took up the spoon that was also on the tray – along with some buttered black bread and a napkin, he finally noticed – and sampled the soup-stew.

"If this is the kind of food I get when I'm sick," he eventually managed, "I will forgo every flu shot from this point forward and go skipping through the rain." He shoveled more of the liquid heaven into his mouth and swallowed.

Hela looked pleased. Thor laughed outright. "Never have I seen Tony so enthusiastic over his food before! Brother, you truly are a master magician!"

A look of mild annoyance battled the little smile that Thor's words and Tony's appreciative eating brought about.

Tony _was_ thoroughly enjoying the soup-stew. He wouldn't have thought Loki and Hela would have had the time to cook something like this. The potatoes fairly disintegrated in his mouth, and the meat – beef, he thought – had absorbed the spices and become tender in the broth. Maybe they had used magic in the making of it.

Whatever, it was good.

Thor was right when he said that he never saw Tony so enthusiastic over food. He doubted that anyone in the Mansion had ever seen him evidence more than a standard interest in his meals. He couldn't cook much more than toast and scrambled egg himself, and viewed food as fuel rather than something to find enjoyment in. It was one of those avenues of pleasure that he had never been particularly drawn to, even during that long period of his life when pleasure and indulgence were all that drove him. He wasn't sure what it was that made _this_ bowl so different, but he hoped Loki would remember how to make it later.

"You like it, daddy?" Hela asked, grinning.

Tony only nodded, pausing long enough to pick up one of the triangles of black bread and dip it into the broth. The bitterness of the bread was a nice accompaniment.

Thor chuckled again at the sight. "Loki, if this meal truly is a balm for human illness, you must teach me how to prepare it. Jane has more than once succumbed to the sicknesses that pervade this Realm, and I should like to have some way of easing her recovery. Especially if she enjoys this dish so much as Tony does."

Still happily devouring the soup – the bowl was already half empty – Tony snorted, unable to keep from drawing a likeness from Thor and Loki to a couple of owners discussing their exotic pets.

Loki shrugged. "It is a simple enough recipe, I doubt even you could do much to get it wrong. The chief thing is time to allow the ingredients to work and blend. I hurried that along a little in this case—"

_Ah ha!_ thought Tony.

"—but otherwise it is very simple. Perhaps the most challenging aspect is breaking apart the bones."

Tony froze, spoon poised midway between bowl and mouth.

"Bones?" Thor echoed the word that was bouncing around in Tony's skull, looking for a way out. "There are bones in the soup?"

"No. The bones are broken apart and left to steep to make the marrow broth. It's similar to tea, but with animal instead of vegetable parts."

There seemed to be no way of blocking out the words he was hearing, but at the same time there was this kind of gruesome fascination to them. Marrow broth, huh? To give the soup more body, he couldn't help but wonder?

He looked into the bowl, suddenly suspicious of the delicious little transparent drops of fat floating on the surface.

"It was fun," Hela put in from Tony's other side, not noticing that Tony's frantic spooning had abruptly stalled out. "We got to use a whole piece of cow and take the meat off, and then use the bone!"

He had such a macabre family, Tony reflected distantly. It was a wonder he hadn't forced a giant Halloween party on them yet.

Thor was casting a speculative look at Tony's bowl. Fair dues, so was Tony. "That does not appear to be enough to account for even part of a cow," he commented.

"There's more in the kitchen," Hela provided.

"For Stark," Loki was quick to add. "We don't know how long this illness will last, so there is plenty even should it go on a full week."

With the new knowledge of what was in the soup warring with his taste buds, Tony wasn't sure whether to be very glad or very uneasy at that news. He squinted at his spoon, decided he didn't care enough about the ingredients to allow it to ruin his meal and gulped down the bone broth and a crumbling potato.

He looked at Thor and raised his empty spoon to emphasize his point. "If you do decide to make this for your lady, Thor, may I suggest you don't tell her how it's made before she tries it? Or perhaps ever?"

Thor looked puzzled, but Tony caught the little twitch of Loki's lips. He'd known exactly what effect knowing what was in the soup-stew would have on him and had told them anyway, the bastard.

"Why do you say that?"

He waggled the spoon expressively. "Call it a quirk of human psychology. Just trust me on this; things will go a lot more smoothly if you just keep that little tidbit to yourself."

…

"What do you mean I still can't come in?"

The look that Fenrir was leveling on Steve, with arms folded and brows pulled low was becoming far too familiar to him.

It was also infuriating to know that despite appearances Fen could actually give him a fair turn of trouble if he tried to muscle his way through. He would probably still win, Steve could expect at least a slight advantage over Loki's son for another couple of years, but he wouldn't come away from any bouts without the bruises to prove it.

The only thing that made it bearable was that Fen wasn't making a big issue out of it, wasn't gloating in his ability to boss around an adult. He was just doing his job, the task he had been set to.

And he was sticking to that task with single-minded tenacity.

"I mean you can't come in if you're bringing _that_," he said, indicating the new gift Steve had brought. "The last present just would have made him sneeze more. This will _really_ make him worse. Are you trying to make him worse?"

"What? No, I—!" Steve floundered under the accusation thrown at him. He looked down at his newest offering. It caused him less embarrassment to be seen walking around with it than the flowers, but when he remembered his first attempt he couldn't help but wonder if his subconscious was trying to tell him something.

Steve kicked that speculating part of his brain with a scowl. _Yes,_ he thought savagely. _It's trying to tell you that you need to find a steady girl, that's what._

Fenrir pointed at the mixed bag of chocolates held in Steve's hand accusingly. "Those are full of sugar," the boy growled. "And sugar makes the _virus_ stronger, not the one fighting it. If he eats those, he'll get sicker!"

Steve sighed quietly. He wasn't even sure that Tony liked chocolate. He had just thought that a tasty treat would be good to break up the monotony of medicines and tea. A spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down, right?

He was rather proud of that little bit of popular culture. This age he'd woken up in seemed to communicate primarily through references, and it was taking him a long time to catch up on seventy years of the stuff.

"He doesn't _have_ to eat it right now. There's no rule that says he has to use his gifts right away, only that they make him feel better. This will make him feel better when he can eat them!"

How an eleven year old boy managed to look so long suffering and superior, even when he still had to look _up_ to look anyone in the eye Steve could never figure out. It must have been something he had gotten from his father. Lord knew Loki did it practically by default.

Actually, that was true of both fathers.

"It was plainly implied," Fen drawled out, as though explaining to a simpleton – another habit of his fathers'. "What good is bringing something to a sick person to make them feel better if it won't make them feel better right away? This one is even worse than the flowers," he said, shaking his head. "Try again."

He thought about arguing more, tried to imagine it out, and decided against it. There was no way Fen was going to relent, and he would be having a pointless fight with a child for the second time in one day.

He held the bag out to Fen. "Would you like them, then? They're not the best chocolates, but…"

At the look being given him, Steve trailed away.

"Now I _know_ you're trying to kill us."

…

Bruce had always gotten along fairly well with all of the kids. Since the first day they had arrived they had taken a shine to him for some reason, using him as a jungle gym when they wanted to play and as a warm place to snuggle whenever they began to tire – when neither of their parents could be found, at any rate.

For the most part Bruce accepted all this gracefully. He'd never had any dislike for children, but then neither had he any particular liking of them. He'd never had much opportunity to interact with them, and he and Betty had never gotten around to discussing children of their own save in the vaguest of senses before the lab accident happened.

But the triplets he came to hold dear. They had absolutely no fear of him, and that alone had been reason enough to scare _Bruce._ With three small children crawling all over him and no idea that anything, some pulled hair or too many loud voices, could set him off and having him go green and mean, he had been tempted more than once to discourage the kids from being around him. If the children were given the proper dose of fear of him and what he could do, then they would stay away and safe.

It had come as something of a shock to learn that all three knew about the Other Guy from the beginning and had still not been afraid. Paradoxically, that made Bruce feel more at ease around them, and their turns of roughhousing and lazy snuggles became even more common.

Still, it was a little strange to have one of them camped out in his lab. That was a habit that Tony and Clint were more accustomed to.

And yet here Jör was, contentedly perched on one of his tall stools, heels occasionally bumping a steel leg as he kicked his feet back and forth. He wouldn't be able to do that much longer, Bruce observed. The boy was growing so rapidly as of late that soon his feet would reach the ground when he sat in one of those stools.

It was something Bruce had noticed some time ago. For the past year or so the triplets' normal rate of growth had increased by a considerable margin, with occasional spurts that made it difficult to keep them in clothing that fit properly. What only made it more obvious was that the triplets were growing at different rates from each other. Hela and Fenrir were staying reasonably close in height, but Fen was already showing signs of where he was going to broaden out in a few years. When he changed to wolf form, he was larger than most adult wolves and was only getting bigger.

Jör, though. Jör was leaving both of his siblings in the dust, as a human or a serpent. He was a full head taller than either one of them, now, coming up a little higher than Bruce's shoulder, and when in his snake form… Well, he couldn't hide behind the appliances anymore, that was certain. Bruce suspected that he had some minor control over his size when he transformed, though.

It was a little sad that at the age of eleven it was already out of the question for Jör to roughhouse like he used to, and the time was fast approaching for Hela and Fen as well. It also seemed rather unfortunate that at a glance the one likely to draw the most attention was the one who wanted it least.

Maybe it was odd that Jör _didn't_ hole up in his lab more often.

Bruce wasn't averse to having company, so long as said company didn't get in his way, didn't distract him with pointless conversation or attempt to watch everything he did over his shoulder. Jör fit that bill very well. After sidling his way through the door, he had asked Bruce for any information on the human immune system he could provide. After some basics, he had sat the boy down with a book and was answering any questions that came up as he read.

Bruce would have felt bad about the negligent method of teaching, except that Jör took to it so well. It was no children's primer on anatomy and physiology he had handed the boy, and the questions he was coming up with were intelligent, showed he was absorbing most of the material. Further, Bruce rather suspected the Jör preferred to get most of his information from the printed word rather than from someone he would have to hold a conversation with.

As tall as he was, and already putting on the girth that Fen was showing the first signs of, Jör gave the unconscious impression of being a little on the slow side. The stereotype of 'big and dumb' worked against him, and was only helped along by his inclination for being quiet. In fact, he was one of the most intelligent kids Bruce had ever seen, once again outstripping his brother and possibly even his sister. He simply absorbed everything around him and held on to it; once it was in his head it wasn't going to leave again.

Going about his work while still remaining aware of his guest, Bruce wondered what it was the boy expected to gain by the study of the human immune system as a whole. It seemed to him that anything he would want to know about colds and flus could be found in much simpler texts or with more pointed questions. Doubtlessly Hela had called up every available file and website on the subject, and there was what Bruce had told Loki directly. It looked to Bruce as though Jör were systematically trying to learn _everything_ about the human body, how it worked, what could go wrong and how to fix it.

Perhaps he was, Bruce thought. Perhaps this sign of human frailty had caused him to worry over his adoptive father.

Oh, Tony had come home beaten and bruised plenty of times before. It was to be expected when you were an Avenger, and he had not been the only one to come home limping. Loki had also come from the field with blackened eyes, lacerations and broken bones. It was something the kids had come to regard as more or less normal. To see that one of their parents could be struck down by something they couldn't even see, something that they and their birth father were impervious to, must be upsetting. Frightening, even.

The more he thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed. He wondered if Hela or Fen were doing the same as their brother, or if they were even aware of his activities. Bruce wondered if the boy had been set to this task or if he had sought it out himself.

He was working at one of the computers set to a feed from a microscope when the tall, clean-pated boy cleared his throat right behind him. Not surprisingly, he hadn't heard the boy get up or approach, even though there was no sound in the lab other than the very soft hum of electronics.

Jör held out the book Bruce had given him a little more than an hour ago. "I'm done with this one. I need another, please."

For a minute Bruce stared at the book. It was thick and heavy, and not exactly light on the terminology. But he knew that when Jör said he was done, he didn't mean he was done reading because he didn't want to read anymore. He was done because he had run out of book.

He wasn't sure whether he should hope the boy chose to become a doctor or fear the possibility.

…

Dreams were always a little hit or miss with Clint.

He had the kind of temperament that tended toward the cheerful, a kind of laid back affability that orientated itself in line with whatever was lighthearted and enjoyable the same way a spinning compass needle will orientate itself with magnetic north. However, his circumstances, personal history and his lengthening history with what was determined to dampen his spirits and test his fortitude, had made it become a bloody-minded kind of cheerfulness. It was the sort of cheerfulness that would bully its way through whatever other sentiment was trying to entrench itself and just keep going, not deigning to notice that other attitudes existed.

Normally Clint's good humor was bullheaded enough to manage this without much trouble.

It was during sleep when the strain would begin to show. When his subconscious was given reign, Clint was prone to the kind of nightmares that would have him coming up out of sleep flailing and soaked in sweat.

What had him coming up so abruptly out of sleep this time, flailing and gasping, was a heavy canvas tote dropped directly in the middle of his abdomen.

"I see you're taking full advantage of the amenities. "

Clint struggled to blink the remnants of sleep out of his eyes, trying to focus on where the voice was coming from and catch his breath at the same time. Eventually he was able to consciously recognize who he had already classified by voice.

"Hullo, Tasha. Nice to see you back safe."

The redhead smiled sweetly at him. She was leaning over the back of the couch, still wearing a light jacket and a pair of sunglasses pushed up onto her head like a hairband. "You know you have your own room here, with its own bed and everything. You don't _have_ to crash on the sofa like a college student."

"Maybe I like pretending to be a college student," he said, yawning hugely. "Besides, there's a bed at my own place and I crash on the couch there, too." He poked at the bag that had attacked him in his sleep. "What's this?"

"Just some shopping," Tasha replied, taking off the jacket and draping it over the sofa.

Clint immediately ceased his curious prodding. "Should I be worried that it'll bite?"

"Not unless the grocer slipped in something extra when I wasn't looking. I went to the farmer's market."

"You say it like there's only one. What did you get?" He peeked inside the canvas.

"Well—"

"Hey, this is garlic!"

Natasha pursed her lips at him. "Quick, aren't you?"

He pawed through the bag, incredulity mounting. "It's _all_ garlic! This bag must weigh ten pounds!"

"Pretty good deal I got for ten pounds of garlic, then," she commented drily, coming round the sofa. She shoved his legs off, forcing him to sit up and giving herself somewhere to sit. "But it's not _all_ garlic, thanks very much. Just _mostly_ garlic."

Still pawing through the bag of bulbs, Clint was just reaching a depth to see that this was true. "Onion isn't much better. You planning on starting some sort of niche pasta place or something? 'Spy Spaghetti', 'Agent Alfredo'?"

"Very funny, though I was given reason to be glad of my training. Getting through those crowds is a nightmare."

"We won't be able to trace your trail through the market by a string of unconscious shoppers, will we?"

"Of course not, what kind of agent do you think I am? I hid them better than that."

Clint nodded, all approval for the avowed discreetness of Natasha's violent little shopping trip. It would never do for one of their number to become so sloppy in their work. That would reflect poorly on the rest of the team.

Finally satisfied that there was nothing in the bag save garlic and onions, he lifted the weight off of him and set it gently on the floor between his feet. "So what is it for?" he asked a little more seriously. "If you make it a regular habit to buy garlic in bulk, it's a habit I've never noticed before."

"Normally I don't, but we didn't have enough in the house, and I felt like going out and getting it myself." When Clint's expression failed to clear, she elaborated. "Loki was asking me about any effective remedies for the flu, and when I told him I could still remember what my grandfather would do and which always seemed to work, he was interested."

"And what granddad did involves a lot of garlic? And onion?"

"Mm-hmm. It's a kind of soup, knocks down the bugs quickly."

A slow smile spread itself across Clint's face. "Does this mean I'm going to see you cooking, after how many years? And for _Tony_, no less?"

The equally slow smile he got in return set off alarm bells in his mind. "Yes, but not nearly as much as you think. My role is going to be mainly supervisory. _You_ are going to be doing most of the cooking."

"Say what, now?"

Natasha's smile somehow contrived to look both sweet and malicious, without being particularly evil. It was a familiar look, she was good at it. It had something to do with the corners of her mouth, he thought, and how her eyes would crinkle. "You heard me. I'm putting you to work Agent Barton. Consider it penance."

"What for?"

"I'm sure you can think of something."

He tried a scowl. "Who says I've got the time to spare for cooking up soup for Stark?"

Tasha raised her eyebrows at him and looked down pointedly at the couch they were both sitting on, and on which Clint had so recently been sleeping. She didn't even need to say anything, the look was eloquent enough. He sighed.

"Fine. But I'm not wearing the novelty apron."

…

Tony Stark was getting an examination.

This came as something of a surprise to him, as he avoided going to doctors, despite needing them quite often. This stemmed from many reasons, not the least of which being that upon entering an office he was relinquishing an awful lot of control to someone else, and over his own person to boot. Worse, once they had that control, physicians either couldn't get over the fact that they had Iron Man in their office, couldn't compensate for the odd effects the arc reactor had on their equipment and Tony's body, or saw Tony as an interesting science experiment rather than a patient. Or all of the above. Besides which, Tony never could trust authority figures, institutionalized and marketed medicine or people who made no bones about admitting that their career was 'practice.'

He found he didn't really mind with this examiner, though, and took note to remember her for the next time he got sick. Only she would probably need some more medical training to do much more than prescribe soup.

Hela leaned in until her little half-hidden face was only two inches from his and squinted fiercely. Tony focused on the one intensely green eye he could see and did his best to not grin or burst out laughing. The single eye darted back and forth to scrutinize both of his, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Finally she leaned back and noted aloud, "Eyes are a little red, but no… um…"

"Discharge, miss?" JARVIS supplied helpfully.

Hela nodded. "Yes. Thank you, nurse JARVIS."

"You're welcome, Dr. Angrbodudóttir."

Tony couldn't quite hold back his amusement and snorted. How strange did things have to get before it could be safely said that his life had slipped off into some sort of bizarre alternate dimension?

The snort was resented by his small examiner. She put on a very somber expression, her lips pressed together in a line, and popped in the ear buds of a stethoscope. All solemnity, the girl ordered Tony to sit forward, to breathe in and out, and to do all the things that would allow her, upon pressing the chest piece to Tony's skin, to hear what was happening inside Tony's lungs.

It was no child's toy that she was using, not one of those pink and plastic stethoscopes that came in a kit, complete with a plastic syringe, hammer, thermometer and band aides. This was a piece of equipment, sturdy and meant for hanging around the necks of doctors and nurses. It was but one of very many things she had found in her explorations and 'collected'. Tony thought the stethoscope – and much of the rest – had probably been Bruce's originally. He was the kind of man who kept what he needed close to hand, so owning a stethoscope was very possible. If the good doctor ever did notice that a stethoscope had gone missing, he never once mentioned it. Neither did he mention any of the other little items that seemed to wander from his lab and directly into Hela's possession.

The girl picked up one of the wandering items and sternly commanded, "Say 'ahh'!"

Lips still twitching, Tony complied, opening wide. "Ahh!"

The tongue depressor was applied carefully, Hela using enough force for the stick to live up to its name but not to gag him. There were very obvious reasons for being glad of that, but Tony was sure that Loki would never let him live it down.

Hela peered inside Tony's mouth for some time, and he was beginning to wonder if he should suggest a flashlight when she finally removed the tongue depressor. Tony closed his mouth and swallowed gratefully.

"No swelling – I think," she said, tilting her head so he knew she was addressing her 'nurse'. "But some redness."

"Noted, Dr. Angrbodudóttir."

Next she felt his forehead with her ungloved hand, which felt cool and made him shiver. Hela frowned at that and surprised him by moving her hand from his forehead to the back of his neck. That was worse. Her hand felt even colder there, which probably meant he felt even hotter. He shivered again, more violently, and wondered if another bout of chills was coming on.

She was enough displeased with what she found that she picked up the thermometer and told him to open up again. Tony made a face.

"Aw, c'mon, doc, I just did that a little bit ago!"

The thermometer didn't waver. Hela's face was curiously expressionless. "Did _I_ take your temperature?" she asked.

"No…"

"Then it doesn't count," she said decisively, and moved the instrument closer.

Tony sighed and complied, wondering just how many times his temperature was going to get taken throughout the day.

Thor, who had yet to take his leave and was watching this performance with interest, looked over at his brother, a small smile playing his lips. "You have trained him well, Loki."

Tony bristled but couldn't respond with the thermometer under his tongue.

Seeing Tony's scowl, Loki smiled affably at Thor rather than responding with the mild, cold aloofness he normally did. "Thank you, brother, I appreciate that."

Unable to do anything else without spitting out the thermometer and dislodging Hela, Tony added this offence to Loki's tab. Payment would come later, when he had his strength back and had the energy to be inventive.

In the meantime, Hela was prodding him. Under his jaw, behind his ears and under his arms, she felt around for swollen glands with her fingers. Tony was again impressed; he wouldn't have thought she would know that little test. Actually, for a child who had no experience with sickness, she was proceeding as though she had done this dozens of times, as though she really were training to be a doctor. She was doing better than the average eleven year old that had seen and experienced sickness since birth. Or at least Tony assumed so, using impressions gathered from popular media as his basis of comparison. Four years with the triplets had taught him a lot, but he was still a little vague when it came to _human_ children.

Finished with her prodding, Hela tilted her head back slightly. "No swelling of the lymph nodes," she said.

Tony's eyebrows lifted to his hairline. Just how many books _had_ she been reading?

JARVIS replied with the expected, "Noted," and then, "You may remove the thermometer, now."

Hela did so and took a few moments with the thing brought up close to her eye to make out what it said. Tony resolved to get one that at least had a digital readout. "101 degrees," she was finally able to announce.

"Within safe margins," JARVIS responded. "Recommended course of action is to continue observing the patient, rest, fluids and nutrition. Medications to be dispensed as needed to minimize discomfort."

Tony cleared his throat. "In that case, I'm going to request some of those decongestants." He pointed at the bedside table. Decongestant should help ease the building pressure in his head. In even making the request it suddenly became quite noticeable that Tony sounded like Kermit the Frog.

At his request Hela glanced back at her father. Doctor in residence or no, she deferred to him when dispensing meds. When Loki nodded she hopped off the bed and handed Tony one of the boxes that had been stacked and waiting for him since he had woken up from his nap.

While Tony struggled with the sadistic packaging of over the counter medication manufacturers, Thor turned to his brother. The look on his face was not grave, but there was something in it that communicated a feeling of quiet concern. "It appears that you have everything well under control here, Loki. Tony appears to be in no danger, and your care and attention are thorough. But should you require anything more, you know you need only call for me."

Thor fixed his brother with one of his most earnest looks, one that he normally reserved for those times when he was trying to heal the rift that still yawned between them. And if Tony could recognize it, then there was no hope that Loki did _not_ recognize it. Managing to wrestle the blister packs apart, Tony expected for Loki to give a brief acknowledgement of Thor's offer and then to, very curtly, defer it. It was the usual response he gave these days. Tony considered it a marked improvement. What there had been before had made interesting listening, certainly, and even Tony's not inconsiderable vocabulary had been expanded upon as a result, but this was such a peaceful alternative.

This instance, however, was set to surprise him. Instead of doing any of what Tony considered likely, Loki checked himself. He paused, and then, as though it cost him a great amount of effort, he nodded his head. "Thank you, Thor. I will remember your offer, and call upon your arm should I require it."

The big Prince of Asgard looked as taken aback by Loki's response as Tony felt, his eyes widening as he listened. Thankfully he was wise enough not to point out this odd behavior to the one perpetrating it. Instead he exhibited extraordinary diplomacy by not saying a single thing, and with a nod to each of them took his leave of the room.

For a few minutes no one said anything. Tony was busy taking his first dose of decongestant, Loki was still staring at nothing whatever and Hela was keeping busy by trying to straighten the parts of the bed that weren't directly pinned underneath her adoptive father.

"That was very civil of you," he managed in his Kermit voice. "I'm impressed. Are humans finally rubbing off on you and softening that flinty heart of yours?"

Loki smirked, and finally lifted his eyes from the carpet, familiar twinkle of mischief firmly in place. "Hardly. I doubt that if anything of human nature were leaving its mark on my character, that it would be forgiveness, or gentleness. Humankind has barely enough of either to share with itself, much less to influence others with them."

"Owch." He put a hand over his heart to show his wounded pride. "And here I thought your opinion of the species was improving on closer acquaintance."

"Varying more with longer exposure, perhaps," he conceded after a moment of consideration. "I couldn't say that the overall impression has improved with time, certainly not with humans as a whole. Individuals, now, some of them manage to make some reparation for what the species has done."

"Should I take that as a compliment, or is it another clever set up for a stinger?"

Loki smiled faintly. "A compliment."

"Well, damn. I'm definitely going to have to get sick more often. Food, pampering and compliments all in one day. I feel like a princess."

Hela giggled, putting all the dishes back onto the tray. When she was done Loki picked it all up, moving to the door. "I'll take this, and I wanted to look in on Jörmungandr. He's been a while out of sight."

"What are you have him do?"

Loki paused, hand on the doorknob. "He said he wanted to do some research. 'Extensive research,' to use his own words, and then he wandered off, I'm not sure to where."

"Jörmungandr is currently in Dr. Banner's laboratory," JARVIS chimed in.

Tony frowned up at the ceiling. This was a recent trend he had noticed, where JARVIS would offer up information without being specifically asked for it first, insinuating himself into conversations to give said information or even opinions. It wasn't something that Tony had programmed him to do, nor was it a protocol that was included in any of his many upgrades. True, JARVIS was designed to be a learning AI, capable of picking up, integrating and applying information, he was even capable of learning how to _learn_ in new ways, which Tony considered the pinnacle of his AI's genius.

It was expected for JARVIS to have new information on a regular basis. New information, new opinions, new points of view, those were all normal. At least they were to Tony, who knew more about JARVIS and his true capabilities than anyone else.

But what he was displaying in his simple, unsolicited remarks was a new _behavior_, and that was quite different. A new behavior meant something in his core programming had been altered. It was probably something small, but the point was that no one save himself should have been able to do it. Unless something in JARVIS' code had become corrupted, but Tony doubted that was the case. There would be more sign, for one, and what sign there would be would be fragmented and spread, not concentrated in a single behavior.

The only possibilities other than a code corruption Tony could think of were someone hacking in – and what would be the point in making JARVIS offer information without being asked? – or JARVIS altering his code himself.

Neither option was particularly comfortable to think about. He would have to go on some pretty deep code dives to figure out what was going on soon.

He sneezed.

But not right now.

"Thank you," Loki said to the computer. "Bless you," he said to Tony. He looked at his daughter, who had moved to the stand beside the bed. "I would like for you to remain here and keep him company." His eyes lit up with an idea. "You have some schoolwork still to complete before next week. Why not go over it all while you have iron-daddy's undivided attention?"

Tony gave him a look as he pulled open the door. "That's not very nice, you know."

"Now, now, we both know the children must complete their studies in as timely a manner as possible. We'll spoil them, otherwise."

The door clicked shut behind his retreating frame before Tony could chuck a retort or anything else after him. He sighed, sniffling a little. Well, it was still better than going into the office to sign reams of paperwork. He looked at Hela, who was watching him with concern. He smiled at her. "Alright, little one, let's take a look at the schoolwork that's got you stuck."

…

What Clint considered a novelty apron and what Natasha considered a novelty apron were apparently very different things.

This was something Clint had been unaware of until about half an hour ago, when what he had thought of as _the_ novelty apron had been shoved into his hands. A brief debate had followed Tasha's insistence that he wear it, which he had ultimately lost because he had failed to be specific enough when he'd said he wouldn't wear a 'novelty apron'.

He wasn't even sure why they had to wear them for what they were doing. In the same kitchen where he had cooked up breakfast a few hours before, they were peeling, chopping and crushing garlic cloves at a rate to impress most mess halls. The smell of the stuff would be ingrained into the skin of their hands for days, but the aprons did little more than remind Clint that he could have been napping instead.

"I thought garlic was an Italian thing," he grumbled at one point, trying to figure out how to get at an itch beside his eye without consequently melting his eyeball with garlic juice. "Wasn't it a penchant for potatoes that Russia was meant to share with Ireland?"

"That too," Natasha agreed mildly. She had helped Clint get through the first bulk of the garlic, and then moved on to the onions. If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was that he wasn't chopping onions. "It's amazing, really, how many different cultures we've borrowed useful things from and welded into a hodge-podge. Not at all like any other country I could mention."

Unseen, Clint rolled his eyes at the sledgehammer sarcasm. "Alright, alright. So what is it that we're making?"

"Soup," she said, and Clint wasn't surprised. Soup was the internationally recognized 'sick food,' wasn't it? "And roasted beef with a garlic seasoning, and roasted garlic."

Well, maybe soup wasn't the only sick food out there. "It's probably a good thing he's lost his sense of smell. All this garlic might have made him ill."

"He'll be eating other things without garlic, though I do intend to take some of the chopped garlic and leave it on a plate in the bedroom."

"What the hell for, warding off vampires?"

"To help keep the rest of us from catching whatever he has. The wonders of garlic, good for the insides, good for the outsides."

Taking a handful of cloves he'd just finished peeling, Clint dumped them into the press and pulled on the handle, squeezing all the odiferous juice into a waiting glass. "You have strange ideas of what will actually help a cold, Tasha. I think you're making half of this up just as a means to torture Tony."

"Kick a team member while he's down?" She tried to sound shocked and affronted. It didn't work very well.

"I'm not saying that I _disapprove_ of the idea. But why should we kill ourselves to pander to him when he has the flu? From what we saw, it's not even that severe. Why does Tony get the kingly treatment?"

Natasha sounded amused when she answered. "If you're jealous, Clint, then just make yourself invaluable to Loki and I'm sure the whole house will come to the call when you're starting to feel a little green."

He turned around, so she could have a chance to see his horrified expression. "Make myself invaluable to Loki the same way Tony does?"

"…You're right, that wouldn't work."

"Damn right it wouldn't."

"If Loki didn't kill you for trying first, then Tony would."

…

"Wait, this is your Asgardian Histories schoolwork. How am I supposed to help with _this?_"

…

Steve Rogers could be a stubborn man. Anyone who knew him, or even those who only knew his war record, would know this about him. He had persevered as a weed of a kid in Manhattan, won battles and survived hardship, withstood the ravages the super soldier serum had wrought on his body, gotten through World War II, (mostly), and woken up after being frozen alive in the Arctic. He chose to believe at least 90% of all that was because he was just too damned stubborn to quit.

Yet with all that, he might have found the immovable object to halt his unstoppable force. It confounded him and was beginning to give him a headache.

The immovable object looked up at him, golden eyes dull with the boredom of Steve's attempts to get past him. But he was still resolute in keeping him out until brought a gift he deemed suitable.

'_Something suitable_.' Steve had been trying this for hours, brought up dozens of potential gifts for Tony only to have Fenrir reject them all after a cursory look.

His offerings had included a book, (_'He already has that one._'), a teddy bear, (_'He already has something to cuddle.'_), a specialized set of wrenches, ('_Are you joking?_'), three collections of music, (_'You're an idiot_.'), and in desperation, some of his own trading cards, signed, ('_Do you even know who those are supposed to be for?_').

Now? Now he stood before this tiny tyrant, tired of walking up and down the same set of stairs over and over again and more than a little irritated at being denied every time. He wasn't even certain he wanted to see Tony any more, or what he would say if he ever did get past the door, but his stubbornness wouldn't allow him to back down, not with so much effort already invested in the project.

Fen ran a critical eye up and down the weapon Steve had brought with him as a proposed gift. He was encouraged that Fen hadn't immediately turned him away, but the frown made it clear that the boy was at the very least going to make this difficult.

_More_ difficult, Steve amended mentally.

"It doesn't look very good as a weapon," was Fen's first comment on the rifle.

Steve's sense of pride rose up in indignation. "Of course it is! This is the M1 carbine, a semi-automatic assault rifle, easy to use, light to carry… this is a great weapon!" He knew he was being needlessly defensive, that he sounded completely childish in front of this child, but it was hard to sound rational any more. In the beginning he could have, but not now.

Fen certainly didn't look impressed with Steve's assessment of the rifle's virtues, and continued to stare at the thing as though he had no idea why it was in front of him. "It's dirty," he said at last. "And it looks old."

Steve put the thoroughness of the super soldier serum to the test by grinding his teeth. "It is old," he admitted, voice strained, "and it's not polished, but it's not _dirty_, either."

"If you say so," the boy said, unconvinced. He stared at it a while longer, then looked back up at Steve, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. "Does it work?"

_Ah_. "Yes… mostly."

Fenrir stared at him, silent.

"It doesn't work as well as it did when it was commissioned," he admitted. "But it will fire for demonstrations, and in every other way is in excellent condition."

"It's in excellent condition, except for the things it was designed for? It will fire, but not in battle, when someone would _need_ a weapon?" The mocking was unmistakable, and Steve wasn't at all sure that it was undeserved.

"It's intended more as a collectible," he tried.

"A collectible? An old gun that doesn't work, used back in a time he does not want to be reminded of?"

It was Steve's turn to stare. That last comment meant that Fen knew at least a little about the M1 carbine, and about when it had been used. Not for the first time, he wondered about the kind of education the triplets were receiving, how they came to know some of the things that they did. Why would Fenrir need to know which weapons were used in World War II, especially at such a young age? He couldn't see Loki as having any particular interest in the subject, or in having his children learn such minutiae; and if Tony didn't want to be reminded of that time in history, then he was even less likely than Loki to present more than the bare bones of it.

Yet apparently Fen knew more than the bare bones. He was also aware of Tony's personal dislikes, either of that war, wars in general, or something to do with the time independent of the war itself.

If it was that last, then probably it probably had something to do with Steve and Howard Stark, Tony's father. Fen's awareness of anything like that was easier to believe than his studying the firearms used by WWII infantrymen.

Steve sighed, frustrated. "Look, you let Thor in and all he had was a weapon. Why won't this one do as a present, as well? It's just as good."

Fenrir gave the carbine a look that was eloquent on just how _not_ 'as good' he thought it was compared to Thor's scimitar. "That was a Niðavellir blade, and a fine one. The possibility of his ever finding one for himself, even if he knew what to look for, is almost zero. This," he waved at the rifle. "If he tried, he could find dozens upon dozens and have them rusting in some storeroom somewhere within a day. In rarity, usefulness and personal attachment it all ranks very low." He shook his head. "It won't work."

Steve let out a groan, shoulders slumping forward. He was too tired now to fight the decision any more than he already had, too tired to think of what his argument would be. Save kicking and screaming he had tried every other avenue of discourse, and as tempting as it was, he wouldn't let himself sink to throwing tantrums just yet.

Shouldering the rifle Steve turned to leave, mind already running ahead of him, trying to think of _something_ that would make the boy happy. Had he kept his eyes on Fen for another second he would have seen him lift his nose and take a series of long, interested sniffs of the air. As it was he missed the action and the extra few seconds' worth of warning before a couple turned the corner at the end of the hallway.

Steve stopped, interested. Except for himself and Thor he hadn't seen anyone else come to visit Tony, and he would have had there been any, what with how often he had been traipsing up and down the stairs.

It didn't take long for Natasha and Clint to make it to the door and its prepubescent guard. When they did Steve made no effort to hide the fact that he was staring at the apron Clint had cinched around his waist. The archer noticed the look, winked and kept walking, following a step behind Nat. In his hands he was carrying a tray with two covered dishes, a bowl and a plate.

The two stopped in front of Fenrir. Steve was just opening his mouth to ask a couple of pointed questions when a strong whiff of whatever was under the cover assailed him. He stopped.

The boy with the wolf's nose hadn't stopped sniffing the air since he had first caught the scent, when the pair had still been around the corner. Steve was afraid his nose might come off entirely.

"May we come in?" Natasha asked when Fenrir failed to move out of their way.

It was small of him, but Steve couldn't help the small thrill of amused anticipation, the expectation that someone else was about to go through the same endless rigmarole he had been forced to undergo for the last few hours. The two spies hadn't done anything to earn this little bit of vindictive glee being enjoyed at their expense, but just now Steve was willing to take anything he could get, whatever the source.

At Nat's question Fenrir snapped back to himself. He resettled his posture from its curious stretch towards the tray, making it clear that any attempt to move his feet would be in vain. "That depends" he said slowly, eying them in a way that was, Steve noticed now that it wasn't directed at _him_, very reminiscent of some of the gangster films Tony and Loki allowed him to watch. "Why do you want to come in?"

"To knit booties," Clint quipped.

Natasha ignored him. "We have Tony's dinner," she said, motioning to the tray that Clint was endeavoring to look as though he had nothing to do with, despite being the one holding it. "Your father asked me to make something good for colds."

"He has flu."

"These will still work. They work on all kinds of viruses."

Fenrir gave the two of them a narrow look, motioned to the tray. "What is it?"

"Here, let's show you…"

Clint took the hint and knelt down enough so the tray came just to Fen's chest. When the boy approached Natasha removed the cover from the bowl.

The reaction was interesting to watch. Before the cover was taken away, Fen had been staring at the setup, eyes locked and nostrils regularly flaring as he drew in the aromas that escaped from beneath the lid. Whatever was under there obviously fascinated him, and Steve could only assume it was because it smelled good. It made sense. In all the time he had been trying to gain entry, he hadn't seen the boy eat. He must have been hungry.

Upon taking his first unobstructed sniff, however, he pulled a face, choked, and turned aside. Fen snorted several times, sneezed, continued to snort in a desperate attempt to clear his nose.

"Oh, it's not _that_ bad," Natasha said reprovingly.

"It may not be that _bad_," said Clint, who by dint of having to hold the tray was hanging directly over the rising fumes, "but it's _strong_. Are you sure this won't make Tony worse off than before?"

Natasha shook her head. "If it's strong that just means that Tony will be able to taste it. He's sick, remember? Taste buds are dulled when you can't breathe properly."

Still standing at a small distance, Steve wasn't sure that he could agree with that. Even several paces away the smell of garlic was almost overpowering. If there were any other ingredients or flavors in the food they had brought they were completely drowned out.

Poor Fenrir finally finished his sneezing fit, motioned for the lid to be put back down. Even with that done the boy wouldn't come near again. Steve wasn't sure he could blame him. He looked up at the two spies like he thought they were insane, and pointed at the tray accusingly. "That's supposed to make him _better_?"

Clint chuckled. "Yeah, that's what I said."

The comment earned him an elbow in the ribs, making him grunt and the tray rattle. "Yes it is," Nat said. "Colds – and flu – are nasty, tough bugs to beat, so the remedies have to be pretty tough as well. This is a good one that should shorten his flu by a whole day."

Clint looked at her sharply. "Only a day?"

"We're here to bring a remedy, not a cure, fool," the redhead grumbled back.

Fenrir didn't seem at all troubled by the short estimation for just how much the garlic laden meal would help, but still stared at it untrustingly. He did not look in any hurry to ask them to lift the cover from the plate as well. "You are sure this will help? It doesn't smell too good to me."

"Remember that our senses of smell are not nearly as sensitive as yours, Fen." Clint looked as though he were about to say something to that, but was stalled by a smart kick to the ankle. "And now with Tony's flu, his sense of smell will be even worse. This will help him fight the cold, and he'll barely taste it."

Clint snorted, much as Fen had done, and the boy looked doubtful. He stood a few moments, frowning as he considered, and finally nodded. "Alright, come in."

Fenrir opened the door, and both of them began to step through.

"Hey!" Steve, who had been privately disappointed that they hadn't been turned aside at least once, couldn't keep himself quiet any longer. He motioned at Clint and Natasha, who were both surprised at his outburst. "You're letting _both_ of them in, just like that?"

There was an unmistakable gleam in Fen's eye as he looked up at Steve, his lips twitching. "That's right."

"But there are two of them, and they only brought one meal!"

The two spies stared at Steve, thoroughly confused. Natasha glanced between him and the boy, while Clint simply stared at him blankly, waiting for some clear indication of what was going on.

Fenrir, meanwhile, was giving the two of them a slow, calculating look entirely for Steve's benefit. "There are two of them," he said finally. "And they only have one thing to offer between them: a meal. But there is one big difference between them and you."

Steve could feel the setup, knew that the reason was going to be something like, 'Because I like them better than you,' but couldn't stop himself from stepping into it, nonetheless. "And what would that be?"

"They have a real reason to be here."

With that, Fenrir shuffled the two of them in with their tray. On the way in, Clint turned back to look at him and stuck out his tongue. It was just to be facetious, Steve knew, but he stuck out his tongue back.

…

Tony looked up at the sound of the door opening, not certain whether to be glad or disappointed at the interruption.

For the majority of the day he had been completely confined to the bedroom, and moreover to the bed. He had come to terms with that once it was understood that he wasn't expected to sleep the entire time. That would have been pressing the matter too far. But so long as he had access to a computer or book he could keep himself entertained well enough. He still itched a little from the long stretch of physical inactivity, but he could suck it up.

Hela had firmly attached herself to the idea of his helping with her schoolwork, however, and not left the room, save to fetch the stack of musty, crackling, leather bound books that acted as her school texts. They looked like they were several hundred years old, and Tony knew enough to be aware that they were the _only_ sources likely to fill this particular niche in her education. That niche was something that was wholly Loki's purview to teach: the intricacies of Asgardian history. It was full of not only the scheming and political intrigue of Asgard itself – which, what with their advanced science, magic, and several centuries long lifetimes, was complex enough – but that of several other Realms, each of which had its own political, social, scientific and magical systems. All had to be learned, understood and then seen to interact with each other, and all of those interactions learned and understood. Tony wasn't certain he would be able to make heads or tails of it if given a month on Sundays, much less help his daughter wade through it all.

Whatever else the experience was likely to teach him, it was that Hela and her brothers could comprehend a much wider scope of knowledge than he had given them credit for.

Their progress had been abominably slow, bogged down by Tony's utter ignorance of the subject, and he'd been on the point of suggesting that they switch to something a little less migraine-inducing when Loki had returned.

He had taken in the situation and, instead of recuing Tony from having to show them _exactly_ how little he knew of Asgardian history, had sat down and began to teach them both, as though they were both students. Watching just how quickly he settled into this mode, and observing the particular inflection in his voice when he expressed surprise at finding Tony struggling so much, Tony was certain he had set up the situation to unfold exactly as it had.

So the majority of Tony's day had not only been spent in being confined to the bedroom, but in listening to and endeavoring to learn the history of half a dozen worlds.

On the one hand, history had never been a subject he was on friendly terms with. His interest lay almost exclusively in the sciences. With very few exceptions, he just couldn't make himself care about the political machinations of so many years ago. In addition to which, teachers and history book authors only seemed determined to make the subject as dry and dull as possible, so Tony could almost feel his throat clogging with dust as he read. He had forced his way through the material well enough for school, but it was an experience he was far from eager to repeat.

His memory of history lessons did not at all match the experience of reliving the histories of Asgard, Vanaheimr, Ālfheimr and Jötunheimr, as told by Loki.

Tony had forgotten just how skilled a storyteller the man was. Under the influence of his silver tongue and rolling cadence, the dry and eviscerated accounts held between crackling pages came to life. Heroes breathed, fought and died, wars were full of cries and valorous deeds, and the intrigue of the courts took on new shades of meaning.

Tony listened, and he learned almost in spite of himself. The discomforts of his flu were almost forgotten as he was transported on the soothing sound of Loki's voice, Hela beside him in body and in his transports.

When the door opened, Tony started out of the spell woven around him with Loki's words, back from long ago when a King of Svartálfaheimr was plotting the downfall of a weak Álfar Prince-in-waiting, which would in turn make Asgard's footing precarious with every other Realm. He was back in his bed, with Hela snuggled close into his ribs.

He was disappointed, and at the same time a little glad that he wouldn't have to be the one to find some way to get the history lesson to stop. He had the vague notion that he should have as a token protest, but now wasn't sure that he would have had the presence of mind to.

He and Hela sat up straighter in the pillows. Loki twisted around in his cross-legged position on the mattress to see who was coming in.

Through the door came Natasha and Clint, their very own lovable S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, the latter carrying a tray and craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. Tony could also see Fen, who was holding the door open, and Cap, who for some reason was sticking his tongue out at him. Tony was so surprised by the uncharacteristic expression on the soldier's face that he returned it without thinking.

As soon as the two agents were over the threshold Fen closed the door behind them, cutting off Tony's view of whatever else Rogers decided to do. He shook his head. _Weird_.

"Hello, Loki. Hela," Natasha nodded to one and smiled at the other before looking at Tony. "How are you feeling, any better?"

Not having thought about it for some time, Tony took quick stock of himself before answering. "I think so. A little tired, but the headache's eased off."

Natasha nodded, looking pleased. "Good. Your eyes are a little bright, but otherwise you don't look too bad. We brought you some dinner in any case."

"Dinner?" Tony repeated sharply, and looked over at the clock. Well, damn. Between his nap and Loki's history lesson, he had lost the day without even noticing.

Loki shifted his position so that his feet came to rest on the floor. He eyed the tray with a little misgiving. "It certainly smells as though it could drive off the illness."

Clint nodded ruefully, making Nat roll her eyes. Frowning, Tony tried to catch the scent Loki referred to, but only succeeded in discovering that his decongestant was beginning to wear off already. Well, that gave him a rough idea of how long he had sat listening to the history lesson, but he wanted to know what he was about to eat more, and whether it smelling medicinal was a good thing or not.

Without waiting to be invited – indeed, looking as though he wanted to be done with his task as quickly as was humanly possible – Clint brought the tray over, flipped down the folded metal legs and set it down over Tony's lap. There were two covers on the tray, one for a plate, the other for a bowl, and silverware for both.

Tony was focused enough on what it was he was about to uncover and eat that he almost missed the sight of Clint as he straightened back up again. He was very glad that he didn't miss it.

"Hey, dinner served by a foxy maid! Is it my birthday?"

Clint looked down at what he was wearing, as though he had forgotten what he was wearing, though Tony rather doubted that. He smirked at the sight of himself. "No, it's just that Tasha's idea of 'novelty' is a little extreme."

Eyebrow raised, Tony glanced at the woman and then back at the apron Clint was wearing.

They didn't have very many aprons at the Mansion. Or at least, not many that _they_ were allowed to use, as the cooks who would sometimes come in to prepare meals were very territorial when it came to their linens and utensils. Of the select few that the Avengers were allowed to touch, they ranged from absolutely plain to the kind with 'Kiss the Cook' scrawled across the chest to the one – the only one of its kind that they had – that Clint was wearing. It was exceptionally long, even on Clint, mostly white, with an image silkscreened to it. The image was of a voluptuous female body, dressed in a very stereotypical French maid's outfit, with every hem so short and every seam so fitted that it was only a matter of semantics that kept it from being labeled a frilly bikini. The image was sized and positioned to make it appear that the wearer was in fact the maid, and the whole thing was finished off with little touches of real, highly impractical lace around the hems and collar.

He wasn't sure what Natasha's standards for novelty had to do with Clint wearing the apron, exactly, but the tone suggested that this one did not rate very highly in her opinion.

"So, uh… what counts as novelty for you, then, Nat?"

Completely deadpan, she said, "For aprons, transparent with a naked cook underneath or something with tactile accessories."

The room was silent for a moment as the listeners absorbed this and Natasha enjoyed the blank looks she caused. Privately, Tony filed away the idea of a transparent apron for the future, but his imagination was having trouble with 'tactile accessories.' He would have to think about that one, perhaps do some research.

"Now I'm glad I _did_ say 'no' to novelty," was Clint's comment that broke the silence. Tony nodded, his abused imagination perversely having no trouble with theimage of Clint in something transparent.

The covers over the dishes were removed, Tony's dinner revealed. On the plate was a great deal of what looked like beef cut into thin strips and roughly chopped potatoes, all gleaming with sauce and little bits of green herb. In the bowl was a pale, opaque kind of soup whose contents were hidden under the broth.

Remembering his earlier meal, Tony looked up from the tray. "What's in this?"

Clint stared at him. Actually, everyone stared at him with some surprise, including Hela, and he started to think that he had seriously missed something. "What?"

"Good god, can't you _smell_ what's in it?" Clint sounded aghast.

Tony nodded. "Sure, it smells a little garlicky. But I learned a life lesson earlier today when it comes to knowing what's in my food before I eat it, and I'm applying it. So, what's in it?"

There was another brief pause, the archer by far surpassing everyone else in the level of disbelief that showed on his face. Finally he looked back at Natasha. "Maybe we should have put more in, he's sicker than we thought."

Tony expected her to pull another face at him for making a sideways insult at the food Tony assumed she was chiefly responsible for, but she nodded her head. That wasn't entirely reassuring. "There's garlic in both dishes," she told him. "In the sauce and in the broth. On the plate is pretty much as you see: potatoes, beef, sauce. The soup is mainly broth, heavy on garlic and onion."

"Yes," he said, not yet mollified. "And what went into the sauce besides garlic? Everything, now."

Natasha looked surprised, but shrugged, and rattled off the list of what had gone into both dishes, all the way down to the salt. There wasn't anything that could be counted as questionable, disgusting or even exotic, though from the look on Clint's face, there was something lost in the translation of listing off ingredients from actually putting them in. Tony assumed it was the amounts. Relative proportions were lost when something was only listed once.

Loki just smirked where he sat, knowing exactly where this caution was coming from.

Weill, if garlic was all he had to worry about, then there wasn't all that much to worry about. He liked garlic well enough, and his clogged sinuses would help him weather whatever concentrations he was about to experience.

Feeling a little self-conscious, Tony took a bite from the potatoes and beef with four pairs of eyes watching him.

It _was_ loaded up with garlic. Tony could taste it more than he could smell it, though the flavor seemed a little off to him, a bit like when an image is askew in its frame. Everything all there and accounted for, just not exactly as it should be. Otherwise it tasted fine, and though the beef didn't melt in his mouth as the meat in the stew had done, it was still good. On tasting, the broth was good, too, and in that he could taste much, much more garlic than in the sauce on the beef. He had a small idea of what Clint meant by his continuous references to just how heavy the garlic was in the meal, and wondered what it would taste like if he could breathe properly.

Heavy on garlic or not, he could get through it all without too much trouble, and as soon as he indicated as much, Clint relaxed.

"Good, that means I'm done here," he said, and began tugging at the knot at the back of the apron.

Tony smirked at him. "Aww, don't you want to try some?" He offered up a spoonful of broth. "It's pretty goooooood…"

The apron came off and was tossed at Tony's feet. "Thanks, Tony, but it's all yours. Eat up, feel better, get plenty of rest and all that. I'm getting back to what I was doing before I was conscripted."

Attempting to smooth his hair back down from where the apron had made it stick out at odd angles, Clint left the room and its occupants without a backward glance.

Nat watched him go, and sighed when the door clicked shut. She watched Tony take a few more bites before asking. "Is it really alright, Tony, not too intense?"

He shook his head. "It's fine. It might be a different story when I have a sense of taste again, but right now it's fine."

She nodded. "Good. Then if you'll excuse me, there's one more thing I forgot to bring up." She left the room as well.

Tony stared thoughtfully at the door for some minutes, wondering once again over the bizarreness of his life that would have a pair of highly covert agents conspiring to make him dinner when he was sick. One even dressed in a sexy maid apron. He glanced at Loki, who had decided to start gathering up Hela's books from the bed spread. "What do you want to bet that she's getting me a whole raw garlic to just chew on?"

"If such were the case," Loki answered, reaching for the last of the texts, "then it seems she could have done that to begin with rather than go through all the trouble of preparing a meal."

"And miss out on a chance to torture Clint with some domesticity? No way." He shook his head. "He was hating life a little, there, but she was enjoying every second of it."

Loki shook his head, but with a different meaning than Tony had a moment before. "Midgardian courtship rituals continue to baffle me. Primarily because you seem to have no consistent rituals, but still somehow follow them."

Tony blinked at him. "Courtship rituals? Nat and Clint, seriously?"

An elegant eyebrow arched at him. "Are you saying you hadn't noticed?"

He shook his head mutely, memories spinning back over the most recent weeks and months, a mental instant replay to comb for evidence. Before he could find anything to give him more than a brief pause, there was a tug at his arm.

Hela looked up at him. "Natasha teases Clint a lot," she said. "Clint never minds. They spar a lot more with each other than anyone else in the gyms and spend more time in cool offs than they need to." The single green eye blinked. "When they're all alone the words they use are not the words they mean, but they still understand."

Tony smiled at Hela. "When they're 'all alone,' huh? Then how did you happen to overhear them? Have you been spying on the spies again?"

The girl shook her head, black hair flying a little. "No, I didn't hear them talk."

"Then how—oh, never mind." It would be no good in trying to get information out of her if she had already decided to be circuitous. She was a lot like her father, in that she could keep whatever information she wanted to herself without ever actually refusing to answer questions. Not even the stern 'daddy voice' could convince her to share when she was really determined. Rather than worry about _how_ she came to know such facts, Tony chose instead to wonder over the information itself.

So, the two spies were being covert together, were they? Well, it didn't come as too much of a shock, they had known each other and been close – so far as he could tell – before the Avengers Initiative had been properly formed. Possibly even before it had been conceived, both of them working in their own capacities under Director Fury at S.H.I.E.L.D. Tony had long come to the conclusion, however, that the progress of their relationship had halted once it had reached the respected colleague/close friend stage, and gone no further. Or possibly, if it had gone any further at one point, then they had resettled on something more conducive to a working relationship rather than a romantic one.

Which wasn't to say that romantic and working relationships were mutually exclusive. He and Loki were still together, after all. For the past year and a half Loki had been allowed to act as an Avenger when the situation called for his particular talents. Not that the lack of official membership had ever stopped him from acting for in the Avengers' interests in the past – being so close to Tony and the team meant knowing when such situations arose and when help would be advantageous. Loki was not one to wait on rules or to obey them even when they were in place. 'It was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,' was his way of viewing such things, made all the easier by the fact that he never asked for forgiveness, either.

Working and romantic relationships could work in concert, but they weren't easy. Either one on its own was complicated enough, full of pitfalls, detours and wrong turns. If anyone could pull it off, though, Clint and Natasha would be right at the top of his list. Self-aware, determined and both reasonably mature, they should be able to navigate fairly well. If he were to choose anyone on the team he thought _least_ capable of meeting the challenge… well, that would probably have been himself, honestly.

Still, he could see why they were keeping everything quiet from their teammates. It might get back to Fury, and Fury _would not _like it.

Such were Tony's thoughts as he quietly worked on his garlic laced dinner. Loki had Hela put her books away, telling her to find Jörmungandr and dig him out of whatever hole he'd gotten into.

Tony had forgotten that Natasha would be coming back, and almost choked on a mouthful of sauce covered potato when the door opened again.

"I came back just in time," she said cheerfully, and handed him a warm glass.

Tony took the glass. It wasn't until his second swallow that he thought to check what it was he was drinking. He looked.

"_Warm milk?_"

"Of all the people I've known, Stark, you are the first to complain about the milk and not the garlic."

Tony glared up at her. "I am not a child, nor am I an old man just yet. I hardly need a cup of warm milky to put me to sleep!"

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, never looking so much like a disapproving mother as in that moment. "It seems strange you would say so when you are behaving like a combination of both. The milk isn't meant to put you to sleep, but to help fight your flu. It's a remedy just like the rest of the meal, so drink up."

Tony scoffed, staring at the drink in his hand as though it were a glass of mud he was expected to drink.

Loki watched with some interest as the two of them argued back and forth over the merits and the indignities of a man in his mid-thirties drinking warm milk, whether suffering from the flu or not. To him it seemed absurd on both sides, on one for causing so much fuss over something so small, and on the other for putting so much stock in such a simple remedy. All of these human remedies appeared to be paltry, though, and not at all what he would consider to be adequate to the horrors of what he had been told the Tony's illness could wreak.

Though there might also have been some exaggeration there, as Tony still did not appear excessively ill. Perhaps there had been some embellishment, or perhaps sterner remedies were only brought out when the illness warranted it.

Tiring of the pointless bickering, Loki stepped between them.

"Enough," he said into the startled silence. He looked down on the bed. "Stark, you will drink your milk with no more caterwauling, if you please. It'll do no harm save to your pride, and I doubt _that_ is in any great danger of serious injury."

His partner gaped up at him in astonishment, words temporarily taken away. Loki considered it something of an accomplishment.

"You're taking _her_ side?" His voice cracked slightly on 'her,' making him sound ever more like a petulant child.

"Insofar as it achieves my own ends," he said shrewdly. Stark gave him an exasperated look. Natasha snorted. "For the moment," he continued, "your arguing like a child makes it so we can accomplish nothing. While you two bicker, I must stay to watch you, and I _do_ have some other matters to attend to. So, Stark, you will cease your quarrelling, drink the milk and we can all go on about our business from there. "

Stark's forehead creasing in a frown. "'Business'? What do you have to take care of so late?"

"There is the small matter of dinner for three growing children, who are doubtless quite hungry now. Little has been done today save tend to you, and from what I understand much of the same can be expected for tomorrow. So," Loki allowed a little steel to enter his voice, "consider yourself to have had your fair share of attention for the day and allow the real children their turn."

It worked. Loki saw the change in Stark's eye at once. Arguing with the man too often resulted in a stalemate, as much a result of mutual obstinacy as from any skill at reasoning. It was best to sweep away his feet whenever possible and thereby take the victory. Thankfully, and much to Loki's gratification, the children could be called upon for just such a task. It was a measure of just how much Stark had come to regard them, that they could affect his powers of debate so entirely. Loki recognized that, and so kept it in reserve, to use but sparingly.

Finally Stark raised the glass to his lips, unable to resist a final muttered, "As if I could _ever_ have enough attention," before draining the glass in one go.

Loki smiled sweetly and took the glass from him. "Thank you, love."

…

Tony mused silently in the darkness of the bedroom, alone and nestled in blankets. Despite how much he had protested that warm milk _would not_ send him sleepy, he had felt the first real laps of drowsiness brushing against his consciousness like surf on a beach as soon as his plate and bowl were both emptied. Loki had lain out those things he thought he would need the most close at hand, including a second dose of decongestant which he had taken instantly, knowing what his sinuses were likely to do during the night. Then, after taking his temperature one last time, he had followed Natasha out of the room, extracting a firm promise from Tony that he would call if he needed _anything_.

It had been a strange day, and he had the unshakable feeling that it had been even stranger than he was aware. Pepper had actually ordered him to stay in bed instead of coming to the office, Thor had given him a big sharp stick, Thor and Loki had bonded by sharing recipes, Clint and Natasha had made him dinner, Hela played doctor and JARVIS her nurse, Fen had played big bad guard dog, and Steve had stuck his tongue out at him.

Yeah… weird day. He'd even gotten a history lesson and some interesting gossip from his eleven year old step-daughter.

_How is it I've come to be so close to so many people?_ he wondered. And not just people that he knew by name and personal habits they thought they were keeping so carefully secret. These were people he could confide in, all of whom he trusted his life with, and most of whom he lived with. It hadn't been so long ago when his trusted circle had consisted of a grand total of four.

Pepper. Happy. Rhodey. Obie…

Take away one and add nine more. His circle of companions, of _family,_ had grown 400% in so short a time.

And what a family it was! A super soldier from the 40's, who had fought in the war alongside his father when his father had been young. A brilliant, gentle scientist who was sometimes a huge, rampaging rage monster. A man with a hammer, who legend called a god and science called an alien, but who he could call _brother-in-law_. The world's greatest marksman, once a carny, now a hero and bit of an arrow freak. A woman whose background was as much a warning as a source of curiosity. And, of course, Loki.

Weakling Jötun Prince Loki; abandoned by his kind, rescued by Odin, raised to be a brother to Thor and a Prince to a different throne, but never King. Loki, who tried to oust his brother, to prove himself to his adoptive father and who succeeded in killing his natural one.

Proud, clever, resentful Loki, caught in a web of deceit and manipulation even greater than his own and sent to conquer Midgard. Enemy of Earth, would-be conqueror of the planet, bringer of the Chitauri and scourge of New York…

Father of three beautiful, clever, loving children, and his partner.

All of them Tony's, all his family, close and dear. He fought beside them, ate meals with them, fought _with_ them, and trusted them all.

And yet he had never considered the possibility of _this,_ of being cared for when he was sick. It harkened back to his earliest days, when he could depend on things like parental love and tending to get him through the worst of colds. Back before his family had suffered a kind of gravitational collapse, in the aftermath of which there had only been Tony, the last one standing.

In an odd kind of way, more than all of their close calls, rescues, misunderstandings and reconciliations, _this,_ this being _taken_ _care_ _of_, brought home to him that these people were all family. His family; this weird, impossible collection of people who had no right to have even met each other, let alone get along.

It was all his, and abruptly he was hit with the same feeling of protective possessiveness that he felt with anything that he thought of as _his_, making him feel simultaneously content and apprehensive. He wanted to know where every one of them was, know they were safe, know they were protected… and yet he was comforted by the fact that he knew that they wouldn't just _leave_ him.

He compromised as he felt consciousness beginning to slip under the dark waves of sleep, and called out drowsily, "JARVIS. Head count, all well and accounted for?"

"Affirmative, sir," came the soothing tones. "Five humans, four Jötuns, one Asgardian; seven adults and three children…"

"And a partridge?"

"In a pear tree, sir. All safe and sound."

Tony smiled. It may not have been humor, not _actual_ humor the AI showed, but it was close enough. And who knew? It might have been.

"Are you well, JARVIS?"

"Yes sir, all systems are functioning normally. Thank you."

"Thass good," he mumbled into the pillow, the tide becoming inexorable. "Watch them while I'm out…"

The last thing he heard before sleep closed over his head to drown him in dreams was JARVIS, replying with a smile he could not have in his voice, "Of course, sir."

The last thing he thought before thought became the merest fish in the confounding tides of subconscious was that the next day should not be too bad, since the first had been so mild and restful.

…

_Day Two_

…

The next morning found Tony Stark feeling much worse than he had hoped or thought at all reasonable. Half of the night he had spent tossing and turning, fluctuating between too hot and too cold with the bearable middle a mere fantasy and his breathing significantly hampered, despite the decongestant. Right around the hour when the sky outside began to lighten with pre-dawn light he finally managed to drift back into sleep. There he remained until discomfort forced him awake again in late morning.

Loki and the children were less than thrilled at his worsening condition. Instead of finding him stronger than the day before, they found him infinitely weaker. He was feverish, congested, his throat inflamed and he complained of everything from the level of light in the room, to muscle aches, to nausea. All of the supplies that Loki had lain to the side the day before and which had hardly been touched were suddenly invaluable. Cold compresses, decongestant and, on finding that Tony's temperature was hovering somewhere between 103 and 104, aspirin were all administered at regular intervals to the suffering Midgardian.

Tony's deteriorating condition quickly became known throughout the Mansion, but despite the number of visitors he _could_ have had, he was troubled with none. Fenrir was again stationed outside the door, this time with the strict instruction that there were to be no visitors whatsoever. Loki would allow none save himself and the children into the room, and so Fenrir would allow none, either, and bared his teeth to all who approached.

Tony was not particularly cognizant of anything going on around him, least of all his visitors or lack thereof. There was always someone beside him, and whether it was Loki or one of the kids, so long as there was _someone_ he didn't mind who it was.

He slept in short, fitful bouts all day long, never sure when he woke how long he had been asleep, if it was the same day as when he had fallen asleep or even if he was in the same place. It was kept so dark in the bedroom now, and his willingness to focus was so nonexistent that he could have been in a cave and not known – or cared. The odd, fractured feeling that this was not reality crept over him, until he was convinced that everything he was experiencing was a part of some vast fever dream that he would wake from at any time.

Observing his behavior, which was suddenly docile and pliant, Loki held back on none of the collected remedies. Decongestant, aspirin, compresses, tea, water, soup, warm milk, he shoved everything Tony's direction. The wonder was that none of it was refused .The closest he came was when Loki offered him a steaming bowl. He sat up with a groan, took the tray and the bowl and squinted at it without really seeming to see it. The room was so dim that it wasn't too farfetched.

"Wha's this?" he slurred. "Bones or garlic?"

"Bones," Loki replied without disguise.

Tony grunted, then picked up his spoon and began to eat. Loki would have felt gratified that despite his objections to how it had been made Tony still enjoyed it well enough to overcome his qualms, but his eating was mechanical, with no sign of enjoyment or of even tasting what he was eating. He ate because food had been put in front of him and it was easier to eat than it was to argue.

As soon as the bowl was empty and the tray taken away, Tony buried himself into the pillows, tossing away the top layer that had become too hot and only pulling the thinnest of sheets over himself. The medication notwithstanding, he was still too hot. The difference was that now he was sweating profusely. Loki supposed that was a good sign, that the fever had 'broken,' but he was still waiting impatiently for the temperature to come down.

The thought that the illness might not be an entirely natural one had occurred to him, but none of his investigations could find a malicious trace on the ailment, either magical or scientific. It was as pedestrian an illness as it was possible to have, and would have to be attended to in a pedestrian manner.

The rest of the Mansion's inhabitants, with visits to their ailing teammate denied them, took to wandering the house aimlessly or discussing the latest events. Normally a teammate with the flu would not be the cause for so much alarm, but after the high level of activity and involvement the day before, and with Loki now more or less putting Tony under quarantine, there was more reason to feel restless.

Thor was called on by practically everyone to give his opinion of his brother's behavior, whether he thought it in keeping with all he knew, or if his evident concern were something the rest of them should be taking their cues from. Every time such a question was put to him Thor would answer that the feelings of his brother ran deeply, and who knew in what ways they may choose to show themselves?

Clint was the only one who managed to refrain from even a hint of worry over the change, and finally managed to achieve his goal of napping on the couch.

However much concern the adults of the house showed, however, it was tempered with experience. Experience garnered with age and by virtue of being human themselves – in most cases – kept their worry well within tolerable limits, so that by mid-afternoon, the worry had run its course and none was left to trouble them.

Such was not the case with the triplets.

They had neither age nor human bloodlines to fall back on for reassurance that all would be well. They could depend only on the knowledge gained from outside themselves, the majority of which was clinical and not at all comforting. This didn't do much to quiet their fears. When the opportunity finally arose, when there was no danger of errant visitors appearing at the bedroom door and one father was diligently attending the other, they held council to decide what should be done.

"JARVIS says its normal," Hela started, trying to sound as natural as possible. With others it would have worked, but when it was her brothers who were listening, it was obvious she was keeping her feelings bottled up. "He says it usually gets worse before it gets better, so we shouldn't worry."

"That's stupid." Fenrir scuffed at the grass with his bare toes, staining them green at the tips. "They all keep saying that! Of course things get worse before they get better, or there would be no 'better' to get to. It's just a dumb thing to say to make you feel better."

Jörmungandr, who had decided to stretch himself out on his belly in the sparse grass underneath the bench that Hela was sitting on, chimed in. "Both are right. It gets worse first and it's a dumb thing to say." He sighed, idly drawing something in the dirt with one hand.

Fenrir scoffed, and paced around in circles, stomping down grass and stray dandelions. "It might be _normal_," he sneered, "but who says it's _safe_? Huh? No one's saying it's _safe_. It's normal for people to die, too, but it's not what we want to happen."

Hela shifted on the bench, glaring at her eldest brother. "That's not funny, Fen. He won't die."

The boy snorted, but didn't push. He knew better than to do so with his sister on this particular topic. "Fine, but he's still not good. I can smell the sick on him, and it's getting worse. I can smell it through the door."

Under the bench Jörmungandr nodded. He had noticed the smell as well, perhaps not at such a distance as Fenrir, but in greater detail. He knew what Fen meant when he said he smelled the sick.

"The medicine we give him isn't making him better," the girl agreed. "They just make him _feel_ better, and not very well. The food might be helping, but it's so _slow_!"

"I asked father if he could magic the flu away," Fenrir volunteered.

"And?"

He shrugged, scowling at the ground. "He said that because it didn't come from magic, it shouldn't be got rid of with magic. That it would take time to learn how to magic a human well without making it worse. Without killing them."

This was given a moment's consideration by the three children. In the silence it was possible to hear the sound of afternoon New York traffic – the rumbling of hundreds of engines, the occasional nerve-wracking peal of a horn in the distance. Even in this little corner of the Mansion's gardens it was impossible to completely escape the city that surrounded them, and the sounds that filtered in to them were a subtle but constant reminder to the triplets that they were hemmed in by humanity.

Hela considered her brothers in the silence that wasn't. Of the two, Fenrir was by far the most agitated, but that was normal. Fen was always the first of the three to express anything, either good or bad, and this was no exception. But Jörmungandr was far from being cold to the goings on, she could see it in the little fidgets of his fingers and the way he continually licked at his lips when he was worried. She did not think that all of the reading he had done the previous day had done much to settle his mind, though he had doubtless learned a great deal. She was worried as well, but unlike her brothers, she was less so for iron-daddy's safety and more for his comfort. Jör and Fen might be able to smell the illness in him, but she had surer senses than they to see how much danger he was or was not in. But she knew that if she tried to use that advantage as a way to reassure them, they wouldn't fully accept it, because they couldn't _understand_. They would say they did to try and mollify her, and then try to hide their worry, which was worse.

So she said nothing of the kind, keeping her observations to herself, and said instead, "So we can't use magics to make the flu go away. What can we do?"

The question only seemed to irritate Fen, who had taken to tearing up bits of grass, one blade at a time.

Under the bench, Jör shifted. "He needs rest. His body is fighting and tiring. If he rests he'll be stronger, and will fight off the virus."

"Except he can't," Fen growled. "In bed all day, and what does he do? Shift, shift, shift! No holding still, no sleeping."

"It's because he's uncomfortable," Hela pointed out.

"I _know_ that."

The near silence descended again as the triplets sank into more contemplation. Finally, when Hela was beginning to think they would have to go inside with nothing more than they entered the garden with, Jör spoke again, sounding sleepy.

"No magic to make him better, but what about a little magic _around_ him to make him comfortable so he can sleep?"

…

The next time Tony woke up, it was to a confusing mix of sensations. He felt more coherent than he had all morning, which was a vast improvement all by itself, and he felt cooler. Not chilled and shivering, but actually _cooler;_ a healthier, natural temperature. It felt as though his fever had not only broken, but receded entirely.

He sighed with relief and contentment and went to roll onto his side. That was when he discovered the first really odd thing: he couldn't _move_.

For an instant he panicked, the idea that he had become so dehydrated that his muscles would no longer obey him flashing through his mind before the rest of the information his senses were sending him caught up.

He couldn't move because he was being pinned down; pinned down and held in place on all sides by something very heavy – and _breathing_ – and covered in pale yellow scales.

It had been some time since Jör had last sought sanctuary from nightmares or loneliness in his and Loki's bed, but there was no second instant of panic where he failed to recognize the boy. As soon as he saw the scales he knew who it was. What did give him a moment of pause was how much bigger Jör was than he remembered. The thickest portion of him was easily as big around as Tony's thigh, and after a look around he realized that the serpent-boy could completely encircle him and still have enough length to spare for looping over the tops of his thighs, then again over his lower ribs, pinning his arms down.

_Shit_, he thought a little drowsily. _Do these kids _ever_ stop growing?_

At his small waking motions the coils tightened briefly, a reflexive act that Tony suspected was intended to help keep hold of prey. Tony was very glad he was _not_ prey as Jör relaxed his grip; he was just as strong if not stronger than his size suggested.

"Ah," a voice said beside him. "Good. I was beginning to wonder if Jörmungandr had smothered you."

Blinking in the still muted light of the room, Tony could see three green eyes fixed on him. Loki and Hela both were seated beside the bed, Hela on a small stool so she could lean forward over the edge of the bed and pillow her face in her hands. Loki was seated a little further back, quite composed, with a folded book in his lap, a finger between the pages to mark his place.

Tony tried to focus, but even feeling more in touch with reality, he still wasn't quite up to his usual speed. All he could manage was a croaky, "Auntie Em, is that you?"

It earned him a smile, at least. "I would say that you would never wear ruby slippers, but we both know your fondness for anything red and ostentatious."

"I could totally rock those little bows, too," he managed with a chuckle, and turned his head when he felt something move beside him. Jör rose up until he was snout to nose with him, icy blue eyes staring unblinkingly. The serpent tilted his head and flicked out his tongue, tickling Tony's eyebrow.

"Hello to you, too, slim."

Insofar as a snake was capable of expressing anything given the facial features he had to work with, Jör looked pleased.

"So did you decide that I made too good a heat source to pass up or what?"

The boy made no move to reply, or to suggest that he even wanted to return to a shape in which he would be able to, and it was Loki who had to answer Tony's question.

"He's been assisting in your recovery. This was his idea, and it's quite ingenious." He smiled at Jör. "He has lain around you for the last several hours, acting as something akin to a siphon. Utilizing his unique physical traits, he has been draining away your excess body heat and the fever as well, absorbing it away from you. You have been sleeping, solidly and soundly, ten minutes after he began."

Tony didn't try to hide his surprise. "I didn't know he could do anything like that."

"Nor did I," Loki replied with a glance at his son. Tony didn't think he was imagining the glint of pride in that look.

Still mostly pinned down, Tony ran a finger down a bit of scaly hide he could reach. "Clever boy."

Jör preened, and then laid his head back down, nose tucked in the loops and turns of his body.

Something recently said come back up in Tony's memory, requesting attention. "Several hours?"

Loki nodded confirmation. "Yes. You've managed to sleep an entire day away."

He shook his head wonderingly. "And that's _two_ days I've more or less lost to the void. Well, at least I feel less like death."

"I'm so pleased," was Loki's dry comment. He touched Hela's shoulder to get her attention, nodded to the door. The girl followed the silent instruction and hopped down off her stool and crossed to the door, pulling it open. Rather than leaving, she called out into the hall.

An instant later a large furry blur raced inside, coming up short beside the bed, pink tongue lolling and golden eyes flashing. The hairy nightmare set loose on Tony didn't stay long, for as soon as it came to a halt the wolf cub disappeared and blinked into Fenrir, brows knotted up over the same golden eyes. "Are you feeling better?" the boy burst out.

"Whoa there, pup!" From the moment of Hela's calling out the door until Fen's breathless question had been three seconds at most. Lying flat out and held by Jör's scaly body, Tony felt a sympathetic breathlessness – possibly helped along by Jör's weight atop him. "Yeah, I'm feeling loads better." He grinned at the boy, at the worry writ in his face. Tony couldn't help the grin, even though he knew Fen would hate it. Always the most expressive out of all of his little family, he was also the one most discomfited when he realized that he'd betrayed his feelings.

Rather than taking the grin as a hint that he was letting his emotions show, Fen relaxed at sight of it. His frown remained in place and his nostrils flared, but he no longer seemed on the edge of clambering into the bed, driven by his anxiety. He settled back on his heels. "Good," he said, and opened his mouth to say something else, but finally seemed to grow conscious of the others in the room and his jaws came back together with a small _click_. His eyes dropped down to the bed covers.

The silence wasn't allowed to last very long. Hela, after a small sideways glance at her brothers, had something else in mind. "If you're feeling better, do you want something to eat?"

Hazy memories of bowl after bowl of soup shoved into his hands whenever he chanced to open his eyes tried to come into focus. He shook his head. "No, I think I'm good for a while, thanks."

"Then how about a movie?"

Tony was on the point of saying no to that suggestion as well, doubting his own capability to focus on anything for an extended period of time. A look at the brother and sister standing side by side made him pause, however. Fen's worry was plain enough to see; even those who didn't know the boy would be able to see it without any effort, much to his chagrin. Spotting the same worry in his sister was a more difficult matter. Hela had gotten a little something of the secretive from her father when it came to her feelings, able to hide herself behind a mask when she chose to – which was more often than Tony liked. Still, Tony _was_ familiar with her, and knew when she was hiding behind a mask and sometimes what was behind it. Though her face was smooth, untroubled by frown or pout, Tony saw some concern. Not as pronounced as Fenrir's, but still there in her unwavering gaze, in the set of her shoulders. And then there was Jör. Though he had said nothing, neither had he removed himself when Tony woke, and he certainly didn't feel as though he needed more body heat syphoned off…

He glanced up at Loki, whose expression reflected that of his daughter almost perfectly.

"Sure," he said. It didn't matter if he could focus on a movie or not, he just needed to spend some time with them, awake and reassuring in how not-dead he was. "Why don't you three head on out and pick one? We'll watch it in here."

Fen smiled, Hela looked a little happier, but Jör, upon lifting his head back up and out from underneath himself, fixed him immovably with a reptilian stare.

"It's alright," he encouraged, realizing that the boy had no intention of moving without a little more prodding. "I feel a lot better. If I start to feel too warm again, I promise to tell you."

Jörmungandr remained still a few moments longer, his long body completely encircling him, eyes unblinking. Finally, flicking out a forked tongue one last time, Jör quickly untangled himself from Tony and slithered off onto the floor before blinking into his human shape. Without any more ceremony the three trooped out on a joint mission, the youngest in the lead.

The door closed behind them, and the room became very quiet.

Free from Jör's well-meaning weight, Tony was finally able to sit up. The sunken well in the mattress his body left behind, as well as the dried-sweat-scratchiness of the sheets, told him more certainly than words that he had spent the last two days in bed. His arms and shoulders trembled when he tried to convince them to take on his weight, just enough to lift himself up and back to lean against the headboard and pillows.

He was wiped out. The flu and fever must have been worse than he had thought. It was probably a good thing, he reflected seriously, that he'd had people around to take care of him. At the same moment he thought this, he also decided not to tell Loki and the kids. They didn't need another reason to worry, and his admitting to weakness or errors of judgment might send them into a full blown panic.

Once up and mostly out of his little self-made trench, Tony leaned back and sighed. He _was_ tired, and save a small but growing need to urinate, he felt no need to get up any time soon.

Loki was reading his book, cradling the little leather bound volume in one hand and holding the pages open with the other. He looked bored to be there, ignoring Tony completely.

"That's quite a trick Jör thought up," Tony commented offhandedly. "If he ever decided to go in for a doctor he could rake it in just with that. I wonder if there's a way we could manage it. Figure out the mechanism and emulate it…"

"I rather doubt it," Loki broke in, not looking up from his book. "What Jörmungandr did he is able to do because of a peculiarity in his physiology and his… makeup."

"… And by that I suppose you mean that it was a kind of magic?"

"Yes."

Tony sighed again. "It figures. Anything really beneficial, it seems, comes under the heading of 'magic'." He paused, shifted. "Still, he came up with something really useful. We'll have to remember that for the future. All of them adjusted to this rather well, actually. With Hela playing mini doc and Fen a bodyguard. Did Cap ever get through, by the way?"

"No." Loki's lips twitched. "When he was told that we weren't allowing visitors at all today he stomped off in a righteous sulk."

"Sounds like him," he acknowledged with a smile. He fiddled with the sheets, trying to decide the best way to phrase his next sentence. After mentally preparing three different ways in the space of a few seconds and just as quickly discarding them all, he decided to wing it. That usually worked for him.

"You've been very… attentive, as well. I'm very impressed you were able to tolerate being around a sweating, sniveling, stinking human so long. Even if it was me."

Loki turned a page, continuing to read. "I have remained by your side for how long, Stark? Two days are hardly going to signify."

"Still, dealing with a sick human…"

"I hardly noted a difference."

"Har, har."

Tony paused again, studying the pattern of the sheets. Together for three years, and the etiquette and timing of certain moments, of voicing certain things out loud was still awkward. It served to make Tony acutely aware that in most cases, _he_ was the instigator, the one to introduce a sentiment or topic that the other would just as well leave as silent background. He wouldn't have thought of himself as a particularly open person, but compared to Loki he was, and he could feel it.

"I appreciate it, Loki," he said, choosing to go on picking out the pattern in the blanket. "You being here, I mean. I appreciate you staying, even when I was kicking and screaming about it. There's not many who would put up with me – at any time, much less when in the throes of a flu." He stopped, a little surprised Loki hadn't interrupted him and feeling awkward, uncertain how to finish. "So, you know… thanks."

Loki did not reply immediately, and for a while Tony was allowed to think that he wouldn't reply at all to his rambling mess of gratitude, which was in fact there to cover a deeper muddle of emotion he _knew_ Loki would have interrupted.

"You are human, Tony," he said, without any touch of the disdain that normally accompanied such a statement. "And humans are fragile things; subject to all manner of injury and ailment that Asg—that we are not, that we would shrug off within hours or days at most. I know that you are human, I _know_ that you are susceptible."

Something in Loki's voice, a kind of strain made Tony look up. The taller man had looked away from his book, but his gaze had only wandered far enough to rest somewhere to the side of the room, somewhere between floor, wall and his thoughts.

"I knew that you were human," he continued more quietly than before, almost to himself. "I knew that you were fragile. But you are also Tony Stark, the Iron Man, and the knowledge of your vulnerability became almost lost. I… forgot that something so small could harm you, that within hours you could sicken before my eyes. I had forgotten how easy it would be for you to…"

"To die?"

Loki said nothing, his eyes fixed on a point that he was not even seeing. His face was still calm, but his eyes had grown dark and troubled, almost black.

When he shook off whatever musings had caught him and looked up, his face was a mask. "I believe I was taken in by the illusion of your armor, Stark, and your previous success in defeating _me_ to think that you, of your entire race, were impervious to such things. Now I have been reminded, and know better." He smiled, and Tony could tell that the smile was also a part of the mask. "I won't forget again."

For a moment, Tony was blank, at a loss for how to respond to what Loki had just admitted to.

Fear.

Perhaps not fear that Tony would die _now_, from _this_ cold, but that he would die _eventually_. Much, much sooner than Loki would and most likely from something Loki could have shaken off easily. It was something they had never talked about, having only ever edged around it in the past. They had never spoken about it, and from the feel of the room, they weren't likely to any time soon.

Tony flashed a grin full of teeth, sure that it fooled Loki as much as Loki's smile fooled him. "Well, now you have been reminded, I'm sure you won't mind taking care of me again in the future."

Loki's grin widened, abruptly real, and Tony was instantly wary. "And you, being so very _appreciative_ of my care and attention, I'm sure will only be too happy to remain here until I am satisfied that you are fully recovered."

Tony's smile wilted. "You wouldn't, really…"

Loki's smile grew.

…

_Day Seven_

…

Nick Fury was, in keeping with his name, furious.

It wasn't often he felt the need to go into the field himself. It was rare when he _wasn't_, but equally rare when he felt the _need _for it. He felt no resentment in such cases. Considering his profession, it would have been extremely stupid, not to say naive, to assume that he would never be called to action. Fury was neither stupid nor naïve, and not only expected but enjoyed those times when he got his boots dusty.

This was not one of those times. This was one of those instances when the busywork of administrative duties that he couldn't shove off on to others and the need for him to be in the field met in such a way that seemed tailor made to piss him off.

Pulling to a stop in front of the gate to the Avengers Mansion so abruptly that it made the seatbelt dig into his shoulder, he dialed the obscenely long sequence of numbers into the lockout pad that would let him in without having to talk to – and consequently alert – anyone inside. He was in no mood to give warnings to those he was bearing down on. The only reason he hadn't come in by air was that he didn't want anyone to get too much the impression that they rated such a dramatic entrance.

Upon driving through the gate, parking, and storming through the front door, he was greeted by the modulated voice of Stark's home computer system. "Good afternoon, Director Fury. I believe you will find Sir upstairs. Would you like me to announce your arrival?"

"No, thank you," he growled, already heading for the stairs. "This is not a social visit. I don't aim to be social _or_ particularly polite."

"Very good, Director Fury."

Fury snorted at the title, the only way the computer system ever addressed him. He suspected that it had never forgotten how he had once bypassed its protective firewalls to shut it down and get to Stark. It had been a relatively benevolent intrusion, to introduce the idea of the Avengers Initiative in private, but it was still an intrusion. If the computer were capable of it, Fury thought it might still hold on to whatever passed for resentment in its circuitry. Caution, maybe.

Just as he was getting to the bottom of the stairs, he was intercepted by two bodies.

"Director Fury!" said the first, a tall blond holding a frying pan, apparently having run there from the kitchen.

"Sir," said the second, a redhead who sounded less winded than the first, despite having arrived at much the same speed.

"Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff," Fury acknowledged them both, bringing the brunt of his displeasure to bear on them. "Perhaps you would care to explain your teammate's behavior, and save him the effort of inventing too many excuses himself."

"Sir?" Rogers continued to stand somewhat at attention while holding the pan.

"Explain," he said, jabbing a finger at the stairs, "why it is that the celebrated _Mr_. Stark is shirking his obligations. I realize he's our problem child and only a consultant, but ignoring direct orders for over a week is _not_ something I'm of a mind to tolerate!" By the end of his speech he was shouting, shouting in that particular way he had where he still sounded completely in control, but much louder.

Faintly, he thought he heard Tony's voice call back, "Fury? That you?"

"Sir," Romanoff cut in quickly. "I don't know what he's been shirking otherwise, but for the last week he hasn't been able to do much of anything."

"And why is that?" Fury demanded, rounding on her, glaring with his single eye. "I wasn't informed we had a man down." He flicked his gaze up at Rogers, whose responsibility it would have been to pass along such information.

Captain Rogers hesitated, which was rare enough to make Fury pause. "Well, it's not exactly a man down that we have, sir. It's more of a… a friendly hostage situation."

Fury blinked at him slowly. "'Friendly hostage'? What the hell does that mean, 'friendly hostage'?"

At that moment, the faint voice he had heard before came again, definitely Stark. "Fury, if that's you, get your secret agent ass up here and help me!"

"Stark got sick last week, sir," Romanoff continued. "The flu. It hit him pretty hard, and we've all been doing our best to get him on his feet again."

"And he's still not better after a week?" he demanded. "He _sounds_ healthy enough to me," he commented at another shout from the stairs.

"Oh, no," Rogers picked up. "He was more or less himself by day three, and definitely by day four. It's just that Loki has taken charge of him, and keeps finding reasons why he's still 'too sick', and won't let him out of bed."

"Fury! Mount a rescue!"

The wrath Fury had been keeping mostly under control was beginning to cool, and was turning into something more calculating and quietly but maliciously gleeful. "So… he's been up there for the last week, unable to do anything but convalesce, because _Loki_ is keeping him there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! S-O-S!"

Fury grinned, his day suddenly so much better.

"Did you want to go up, sir?" Rogers asked cautiously. "We've had no luck, but you might be able to convince Loki to let him get up. He's just doing it to irritate Tony, really…"

"Oh no," Fury interjected, talking over the angry shouts of the captive Stark. "I'm sure that if he's still confined, then there's a very good, very _legitimate_ reason for it. I would hate to pull him out of his sickbed only for him to have a relapse. I can do without Stark for another week, at least, should the need arise." His grin widened. "Better safe than sorry."

"Yes, sir," the two chorused.

Fury nodded. Cupping his hands, he called up the stairs. "I'll see you later, Stark! Be sure to bundle up warm!" And he turned sharply, leaving in a much better mood than when he had arrived.

Behind him, Steve and Natasha stood together for a while longer, unmoving, listening to the string of obscenities bouncing down the stairs.

Finally, twirling his frying pan, Steve commented. "You ever think that sometimes the people we work _for_ are worse than the ones we fight _against_?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You really haven't been thawed out for that long, have you, Cap?"

…

_**A/N:**__ And Bruce never noticed that one of his lab coats went missing a few days after Loki pronounced Tony well enough for physical activity._

_Also, this is the first time Nick Fury has actually shown up for the series. Yay!_

Technophobia: _Clint's technophobia is a nod to _Hella's_ '_Off the Record'_. If you haven't read it, do. She now goes by the name _gaddamnhella _on AO3__._

Russian Flu Remedies: _I know little to nothing about Russian cuisine __or__ remedies other than what I was able to find through Google, so please take everything shown here in the spirit of parody._

Two Teams: _In the little bits and pieces of research (coughreadingcomicbookscough) that I've been doing, I've found that Steve Rogers has been on more than one superhero team at a time. This may not be true for the cinematic continuity, but I thought it would be nice as a glancing reference._

Apartments: _I've also been doing research (cough) on Hawkeye, and found that in a current comic series he owns his own apartment building, the result of many shenanigans and the catalyst for several more. (The series is _'Hawkeye'_ by Fraction, Aja and Pulido.)_

Marrow Broth: _It's not as creepy as it sounds. Actually all animal stocks involve steeping bones with other ingredients, but Tony – genius that he is – isn't all that sharp when it comes to how food is made. Enjoy your soups._

Chocolate: _Don't feed chocolate to dogs or related canines. It's bad for them._

Time Lapse:_ We are now approximately four years out from the events of _'Caregiver,' _and three since Tony and Loki officially hooked up. _

Continuity Disclaimer:_ This is going to be a standard disclaimer attached to __**every**__ fic I post that has to do with the __Avengers__, so everyone knows where I'm coming from in terms of characters and world canon. _

_For the most part, assume that I am coming from __**only**__ the movies. __Iron Man 1 - 3__, __The Incredible Hulk__, __Thor__, __Captain America__, and __Avengers__ – and any sequels that come after these unless mentioned otherwise. I realize that I'm missing out on worlds of story and character development, but I would be starting from square one and 50+ years of backstory, (each individual character's series(es), the team series(es) and any/all crossovers or notable appearances), is more than a little daunting. So as much as I want to know everything about everything – trust me, this is __**really**__ frustrating for me – I just can't. I'm picking my battles and this one is a 'nope.' So as a result my __Avengers__ fics will not have 'comic book depth' to them. Sorry. (I __**do**__ intend to pick up some Marvel encyclopedias to hopefully get some more of the world down, hopefully that will help.)_

_What will they have? The movies, of course, one or two short comic arcs that I've been convinced to pick up that will have little to no effect on the continuity, Norse mythology – since I __**do**__ read that – and any details that I can pick up from other fans or that I research on my own. The result of all of this is usually going to be a sort of fusion that hopefully works and isn't too confounding for anyone._

_**Thanks for reading, everyone!  
**_


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